End of Days
by CupcakeSprinkles14
Summary: It is said that every thousand years, Satan will in-pregnant a human with his seed and begin the End of Days. Cato Hadley is an ex-cop, now working as a free lance body guard. When a seemingly innocent job takes a weird turn, he finds himself protecting a boy-Peeta Mellark- who everyone seems to be trying to either kidnap or kill. The End of Days is near, but who will succeed?
1. Prologue

_**A/N: This fic and Bitten are the two I'm going to focus on the most. **_

_**End Of Days is one of my favourite films and after watching it tonight for the first time in a while I knew I had to do my own version of it in the form of a fanfiction.**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or the general idea of End of Days.**_

**Prologue**

**Italy: December 28th 1979**

Father Heavensbee stared at the moon in horror. The book he held in front of him depicted a similar image, of a moon with a streak of cloud above it similar to an eyebrow. He compared the image several times. He had to. He had to be sure. Finally, he realized it was true. It was the moon they had been expecting, the turn they had feared ever since they were ordained.

God's Eye.

Father Heavensbee immediately dropped the book onto the table and left his room in a hurry. Every time he passed the Paple Guards, they saluted him which he didn't exactly feel like he deserved. As a servant of God, everyone is equal, especially in the House of The Lord. Father Heavensbee barely had time to think, his thoughts were filled with endless images of terror and pain and blood and anguish. It had begun.

The Pope sat where he always sat, surrounded by his fellow Fathers in the most grandest room in the Vatican. Father Heavensbee noted that he looked tired as ever, sitting weakly in his wheelchair, his back stooped with years of duty pressed on his shoulders. Father Heavensbee genuflected, took the Pope's hand and kissed it humbly. Once on his feet again, he began to explain.

"Father, the time has arrived. The moon has reached the state known as God's Eye," Father Heavensbee explained. "The child has been born."

The Pope simply nodded, as if he had expected it all along. He turned to his faithful servant, who stood by his side at all times. "Send emissions out to every city," he murmured. The servant nodded and made his way out of the room.

One of the surrounding Fathers-Father Undersee-immediately stood up. "We must find the child and kill it," he said. "Kill it before it's too late."

"No," The Pope said, his voice weak but firm. "We must not kill. That is not God's will. It is the will of the devil. We must find the child before his worshippers do and protect him. Never fight fire with fire, the end is result is only a bigger fire. We must protect, always." His eyes fell on Heavensbee. "You must find the child and protect him."

Father Heavensbee nodded. "Of course, Father," he said with a bow.

The Pope smiled faintly and blessed him. "Have faith, my child, and never lose trust in God."

"I won't, Father," Father Heavensbee promised. "I won't."

~xXx~

**New York City: 28th of December 1979**

Eileen Mellark was exhausted, Alma could clearly see this. She stood by the woman's beside and dabbed her forehead as she struggled through labour. Her screams echoed in the ward, racous roars of agony. Some say childbirth is the most beautiful thing on earth. Alma only saw it as a disgusting trial of sick, unnecessary pain.

"Stop pushing Mrs Mellark while I check the cord isn't wrapped around the child's neck," the doctor instructed.

"You can see the head?" Eileen gasped.

"Yes, we can," the doctor grinned. "Okay, one last push should do it. Ready?"

Eileen nodded and with a massive inhale, she gave one, last, almighty push. The relief was obvious as it washed over her face in waves while the air filled with the painful cries of a startled child. Eileen began to cry as her baby boy was handed to her, her eyes alight with happiness. "Oh, he's beautiful," she sobbed, holding her boy close to her chest. "Oh my god, he's so beautiful."

Alma tried not to turn her nose up at the use of such a disgusting phrase. Stepping forward, she gently prised the child from Eileen's arms. "We're just going to clean him up now," she said.

"Do you have to?" Eileen whimpered.

"Yes, but it's alright, we'll only be a minute," Alma said in her sweetest voice. "Don't worry, he'll be back in your arms in no time."

As she walked away, pushing the child in the incubator, she couldn't not agree with Eileen. The baby was beautiful. But maybe that was just because she could see the child's future in his blue eyes. What was to become of him in the innocent gaze of the baby. What despair those eyes were to experience. What morbid and terrifying sights were still to be seen.

No one questioned Alma when she took the baby to the lower floors. She was one of the most trustworthy nurses in the hospital, she obviously knew what she was doing. Besides, she was only taking the child to be washed up. What was there to be concerned about?

Snow was waiting for her in the lower floors. Upon seeing him she hastened her pace, sick with excitement of what was to come. When she reached the table, she lifted the baby out of the incubator and laid him on the table in front of Snow. "Is it him?" he asked.

"Check for yourself," Alma all but purred, delirious with anticipation.

Snow took the baby's chubby arm into his hand and examined it thoroughly. Yes, there it was. Stamped onto the skin-in the style of a common birth mark-was the sign. The little curve in the shape of a horse shoe. The mark of the devil. The prophecy had been true.

"Where's the snake?" Snow asked.

One of his henchmen-Alma hadn't bothered to learn names-brought the clear bell jar that contained the poisonous viper that had been obtained from the Amazon just two days prior. Snow stuck his hand into the jar, completely unafriad, and yanked the reptile out. Alma watched with twisted pleasure as the baby lay on its back on the table, unaware of what was going on around it. The cries had ceased, thank Satan, and the child simply gurgled and cooed at the people surrounding him.

Snow drove his dagger into the viper's neck, dragging it down the body so blood spluttered out. He held the corpse over the baby's body, so the blood splattered the infant's skin. Snow then proceeded to dig his finger into the snake's neck, twisted it, and retracted the digit which was now coated in the thick liquid that was the reptile's cold blood.

The baby didn't protest when Snow slipped the blood soaked finger between its lips and chanted in latin. It was only a child, after all, and had no idea what was going on.

Alma returned the baby to Eileen with the same faux cheer as before, unable to tear his eyes off the child. She could see the future in that one baby. The future bloodshed and glory. It thrilled her to think about.

"Have you thought of any names?" she asked kindly.

Eileen nodded, smiling at her child fondly. "Peeta. His name is Peeta."

Alma smirked, her true intents hidden behind the affectionate mask she had worn ever since she had sold her soul. "Peeta Mellark. What a wonderful name," she praised, pulling faces that made the baby boy laugh in delight.

Peeta Mellark was born.

The End of Days had begun.

**A/N: I know it's short but it's only the Prologue.**

**If you know the movie End of Days-great!-this story will basically follow the general idea of it but won't be exactly the same. If you haven't, I'd greatly recommend it!**

**Please R&R! :D**


	2. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed! I forgot to put the warnings for this story up on the prologue so here they are now. I'm only doing it once, so I don't have to repeat myself every chapter.**_

_**Warnings: Satanism, blasphemy, dark themes, dark imagery, disturbing themes and ideas, blood, gore, death, mpreg, non-con, sacrifical rituals and strong-and by this I mean **_**STRONG**_**-sexual themes/violence. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.**_

**Chapter One**

**Twenty Years Later**

**27th of December 1999**

It didn't take Satan long to find the body he was destined to inhabit. He _had_ chose the body, after all. Charming, intelligant, devillishly handsome, Finnick Odair had been the obvious choice and, just like it had with the carrier of his child, the stars had been in correct formation at his vessel's birth.

On the night of the 27th, Finnick was due to have dinner with his boss and his wife-a pretty girl by the name of Annie. Satan could read in his vessel's mind that Finnick envied his boss for his ability to call the Annie girl his wife. But the black in Finnick's heart was thick and the envy did not over rule the craving for male flesh. Nothing like an evil, horrid, unforgiving black heart. The blackest hearts were the most beautiful, after all.

Satan watched the threesome at their table until Finnick finally parted to go to the restroom. He could already as he silently followed the human (invisible forms were always the most helpful) that the restroom was empty. Not another damned soul in sight. When he passed through the door, this was confirmed.

Entering the body is always the hardest. The human soul puts up a fight-a weak but admirable feat-and it becomes an annoyingly boring struggle where nothing is achieved other than a few bruises and cuts because of the need to throw the body about to get the soul to give in. Why bother anyways? In a battle between a human and _the_ fallen angel with the power to do anything he pleased, wasn't the winner already obvious?

Finnick's body fit comfortably and the new man who waltzed out of the restroom was obviously not him. But to the untrained eye it simply looked like he had gotten overly cocky from his time in the restroom. Maybe he had an epiphany while washing his hands and realized that he _was_ a strong, idependant man who didn't need to be jealous of his boss' girl.

Deciding to give the poor sod one last thing before he left, Satan approached Finnick's table and gave the Annie girl a massive kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and groping her chest with an expert hand. She immediately fell under his spell, tipping her head back with a compliant moan while her husband was too stunned to respond. When he pulled away, Finnick winked and simply left the resturant with both Annie and his boss staring after him in wonder.

Five seconds after he left, the resturant exploded, consumed with fiery flames and killing everyone inside. The entity now residing in Finnick's body loved theatrics and what better a way to kick start the End of Days than killing hundreds of people too busy worry about Y2K or whatever it was called to think about other ways they could also die? As he calmly retreated from the inferno, Finnick pulled a face and spat the taste of the Annie girl's mouth out of his own. She was not who he seeked and tasted frankly disgusting. But thoughts of the sweet taste of his future lover's mouth kept him sated and the desire to find the boy grew with every passing moment.

Finnick had been watching Peeta ever since he was a child. Watched him grow from the impatient baby, to the eager toddler, to the grumpy teenager to the mature, responsible adult he was today. The evil now sitting in place of Finnick's soul liked to play with Peeta and had been playing with him ever since he was little. He gave him dreams-erotic fantasies of the things that were to come, a snippet of only a quarter of what he was going to do to him once he got his hands on his delicious body-and loved to watch the panic that ensued. All that pyscharitic help, the hours spent discussing the dreams and visions with the best of doctors.

Doctor Snow had taken care of Peeta's mental inability ever since the dreams had started to plague him.

Finnick had his followers prepared ever since the night in '79 when the baby had been born. He arranged an 'accident' for Peeta's mother, where she had an unfortunate misunderstanding with a toaster, and the nurse who helped bore him-Alma Coin-married Peeta's father shortly after. She had been keeping a watchful eye on him ever since, making sure none of the Pope's vile troops got anywhere near him. It helped grealty when the father died of a heart attack two years previous.

Peeta himself trusted Alma with his life, which was greatly useful for what was to come. This was going to be the easiest thing Finnick had ever done.

It would all be over before it even started.

~xXx~

**The Next Day**

**28th of December 1999**

Cato woke up the same way every morning. He hauled himself out of the alcohol-induced coma he spent most of his time dwelling in and turned his own gun against his head. If he wasn't such a coward, maybe he could pull the trigger, but he was and he couldn't. Suicide was useless anyway, it wouldn't accomplish anything other than some unwanted red paint on the carpet.

Marvel arrived at the usual time, pounding on the door and cat calling for an answer. Wincing through his headache, Cato groaned and threw the door open for his friend and work partner. He sulked into the kitchen, blinking the blurriness away and hoping there was something to eat in the kitchen.

"You look like a walking corpse," Marvel commented. He went to the windows and threw the curtains open, despite knowing that Cato had them closed for a reason. The sunlight bit at Cato's eyes and he felt like a vampire as he stepped backwards into the shadows of his kitchen to ward it off. "Out of the dark Dracula, we've got a job to do."

"What is it this time?" Cato asked, grabbing random pieces of food and drink before shoving it all into a blender. It was going to the same place anyway, what was the harm in it being blended before then?

"Some Wall Street broker or banker or something," said Marvel. "I don't know the details, I only know his name, it's something to do with Wall Street and we've been hired to protect him this afternoon from an unknown assassin."

Unknown assassins were the most burdening. You didn't know what to look out for. Meant constant alertness and the quick as lightening reflexes. It would have been nicer to have found this out earlier, so Cato could have sobered up before hand. Well, Marvel did say this afternoon so maybe he had some time.

"What's the guy's name?" Cato asked, raising his voice to be heard over the screech of the blender.

"Finnick Odair," Marvel answered. "His boss was killed last night in an explosion that took the lives of him and his wife. Because of this Finnick is to become head or leader or big cheese or whatever it is that means high up in the ranks of Wall Street. Suspects believe that since his boss has been taken out, maybe a hit has been put on Finnick himself as well."

Made sense. Cato lifted his finger from the red button on the blender and frowned. "There was an explosion last night?"

Marvel frowned as well. "Man, you have to ease up on the liqour," he said. "That fancy place a couple of blocks away 'Die Tribute Von Panem' went up in smoke last night. No-one knows how or why, it just did. That's why people are suspecting that maybe a hit had been put on Finnick Odair and his boss."

"And I'm guessing others are blaming it on-" Cato lowered his voice and said in a menacing tone-"_Y2K_!"

Marvel chuckled. "Your guess is correct. All the crackheads have came out of the wood work, claiming something called the End of Days has began. I don't know what that means but if I hear one more crazy claiming that all computers are going to crash, I'll lose my nut. You'll find me on the streets speculating as well because my brain will have been shot to the breeze!"

This made Cato laugh. Marvel always knew how to cheer him up, even when he was having the worst of hangovers. He lifted the plastic jug off the blender and lifted it to his lips. He paused when Marvel pulled a face. "What? Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," he said.

"_That-_" Marvel pointed at the jug with a disgusted expression-"is not breakfast. That is a sin to good food." Ignoring his friend, Cato swallowed it all. It didn't taste the best but would satisfy his hunger for now. That was all life really was, filling the hole and waiting until it emptied into nothing again. Only to re-fill it over and over and over again because there's nothing else for it.

Later that same day, Cato and Marvel both stood outside one of those ritzy, upscale hotels, waiting for the arrival of Mr Odair's limo. The streets were busy, as usual, life continuing on as normal despite the fear of immediate death in only three day's time. At least not everyone was wasting their time waving signs around and screeching hymns and staying in church to wait out the supposed End of Days.

Once 12:00am on the 1st of January 2000 passed, everyone would realize there had been nothing to worry about. Cato liked to entertain himself sometimes by thinking about those who spent the entirety of 1999 preaching about the end and death and Satan rising from his pit. How would they react? Push it off as well they knew it was a false alarm all along? Admit they were wrong? Or just come up with another date that will bring the apocolypse.

Mr Odair didn't even have a chance to get out of the car. The limo pulled up in front of the hotel and the chaffeur went to the back door to open it for him. Cato had just stepped forward with Marvel to introduce them to the Wall Street big cheese when he saw the man. He stood across the road, hidden slightly in the shadows of an alleyway. He produced a gun, the sight immediately kick starting the adrenalin rush in Cato that had helped him keep this job so long.

Cato pushed Mr Odair back into the car just in time for a rain of bullets to shower over the car and pavement. He yelled for the driver to get the man out of here before looking back across the road to where the shooter stood. Gun still in hand, he tried to fire more bullets at the back of the limo as it pulled away but Cato pulled his own handgun out and started firing at will back at him.

Knowing he was in trouble, the man immediately took off down the alley. Cato turned to Marvel and shouted, "Cover me!" before running across the road in pursuit of the assassin. He nearly got mowed over twice by impatient taxis and resisted the urge to send a warning bullet through their headlights. Couldn't they see he was doing something urgent?

He got across the road just in time to catch the man jump down a manhole. Rainwater splashed up around Cato's feet as he ran to the manhole and jumped down as well. Underneath the city, in the sewers, it stank of fermenting foods and the ground was spongy with a substance Cato didn't even want to think about. The man was retreating at a quick pace but not quick enough.

"Freeze!" Cato shouted, his voice echoing in the vast environment. He cocked his gun so the assailant knew he wasn't messing around, the sound almost creating a repetitive echo around the tunnel.

The man paused, knowing that he was beat. He turned around slowly with his hands raised. He was dirty and feral looking, his eyes wide and face streaked with grime. His hair hung in greasy clumps around his face and his teeth were crooked. "You don't know what you're doing," the man insisted.

"Get down on your knees and put your hands on your head," Cato ordered firmly.

"You're an idiot," the shooter hissed, spittle flying from his mouth. "You've ruined it. You've brought it about. The End of Days! I could have stopped it!"

Oh no, not one of these guys. Cato tried not to voice his own opinion about the goddamn End of Days and forced himself to act professional. "Drop your weapon and get down on your knees or I'll do it for you!"

"The End of Days," the man chanted hysterically, "it's coming. It can't be stopped! We're all going to die in a fire of blood and bones!"

Cato had about enough of this guy and fired a bullet into the pyscho's kneecap. The man fell with a cry of agony, gun falling from his hand. Cato approached him carefully and kicked the gun out of the way. He couldn't understand why people didn't do this and often spent his time screaming at stupid characters in films about how the villain was obviously going to not be unconscious or dead and was obviously going to grab the gun and shoot again. Although, Cato only screamed at his t.v when he was pissed, which was about every other night.

While examining the body for other weapons, Cato brushed away some dirt from the man's neck, revealing a small square of white plastic wedged into a black collar. A dog collar? Was this guy a _priest?_

"So, he's one of the End of Days freaks, then?" Marvel asked while paramedics wheeled the killer priest out of the sewers to be treated. He sniffed. "Can't say I'm surprised. They're probably going to increase in numbers and force over the next few days. The sooner New Year's is over with, the better."

"Couldn't agree more," Cato replied, brushing the dirt from his hands.

Detective Katniss Everdeen made her way over to them. Katniss was a good friend who Cato used to work with when he was a cop. He didn't keep contact with most of the people he previously worked with because it brought back bad memories but Katniss and him always met if one of his cilents ended up being attacked. On some level, Cato was thankful for it, on another, he wasn't.

"Cato," Katniss said, stopping to stand beside himself and Marvel, "what did you say the priest said before you shot him?"

"Just a load of babble about the End of Days," Cato shrugged.

Katniss narrowed her eyes skeptically. "Have you been drinking?" she asked.

"Oh yeah, we popped a couple of shots before we came down here, it's how we always start our mornings," Marvel said sarcastically.

"It's only a question," Katniss threw back, her eyes never leaving Cato. When neither one of them spoke up and Cato refused to admit to the fact that he had had a swig of vodka before he left with Marvel, Katniss sighed and shook her head. "The priest has no tongue."

It took a moment for that to sink in. Both Cato and Marvel stared at her as if she had two heads. "What?" Cato asked slowly.

"Exactly that," Katniss said. "The priest doesn't have a tongue."

"None at all?" Marvel asked. Katniss shook her head.

"But that's impossible," Cato insisted. "He spoke to me. He said that I'd ruined it. That I'd brought it about. That the End of Days was coming and it couldn't be stopped."

Katniss chewed on the inside of her cheek and folded her arms. She shrugged helplessly. "Cato, he couldn't have." She turned around and started making her way back to where the paramedics were packing away their gear.

Fuelled with anger, Cato started after her, shouting, "Are you saying I made it up? That I imagined it all?"

"I'm saying nothing!" Katniss shouted back.

Cato stopped and kicked the nearest wall in frustration. Marvel came up behind him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Well, that was unexpected," his friend commented.

"He spoke to me Marvel, I swear," Cato said, turning to face Marvel desperately. "You know me, when I'm drunk I don't imagine things. Sure, I get over affectionate, scream at the t.v for a bit and pass out for days on end but I don't hallucinate."

Marvel tsked. "Yeah, I know," he said.

"I'm going to find where that pyscho lives and I'm finding out what the hell is wrong with him." Cato started following Katniss' path to the surface, immediately taking note that Marvel was lingering behind. "Come on, Marv, we haven't got time to shoot the breeze! We need to get their before Katniss' calvary do!"

Seconds later, curiosity won out and Marvel's footsteps splashed after Cato's.

~xXx~

The priest's name, Cato found out, was Plutarch. He holed himself up in an abandoned building on 20th street. It took a lot of asking around but himself and Marvel managed to get there before the NYPD did. It was better to be there first before Katniss and her band of do-gooders unsettled everything and turned things on its head.

Not that the place didn't already look like a bomb site.

"Man, do priests not believe in hygiene?" Marvel asked, his nose crinkling as the smell of stale sweat and grime filled his nostrils.

"Maybe it's a spiritual thing?" Cato suggested. He thought his place was bad because he left take away cartons and a few pieces of clothes lying around but this small shack took the cake. Clothes lay strewn everywhere, the ground was dirty and damp, the wall paper peeling, everything seemed to be covered in a thin layer of grease and dirt. After kicking a few things out of his way, Cato stopped in front of a wall in which a mirror was propped up against. "Marvel, what do you make of this?"

Written on the wall was a message written in one of those olden days prophecy style of writing. Marvel frowned and read the red scribble. "'When the thousand years are completed, Satan will be released from his prison,'" he said. "Another Y2K prediction?"

"Could be," Cato said. He leaned forward and pushed the mirror out of the way. Written sideways beside the passage was the number twenty seven. "What do you think that means?"

"No idea." Marvel wandered away from the wall, obviously not bothered with the message. He picked up a box and peeled the lid open. Cato had just turned his back when Marvel shrieked and snapped the box shut again. He spun around to face his friend with an incredulous expression, heart having been startled and now pounding his chest like a hammer beating a drum.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" he exclaimed.

Marvel's adam's apple bobbed and he croaked, "I found his tongue."

Cato's eyes widened. He looked at the box wearily. "You're kidding, right?"

"I wish I was." Marvel threw the box back down where he found it and threw a couple of papers over it to get it out of his sight. "Why would someone cut their tongue out anyways?"

"To stop them from talking." It was the only reasonable explanation Cato could think of, even though it still didn't make sense. If Plutarch was supposedly one of the End of Days nutters, then shouldn't he have been out preaching somewhere? Not opening fire on a Wall Street Banker. It all didn't add up.

Marvel opened the green-stained fridge, only to scream as a black cat hissed at him from inside. This time Cato found it funny and tried to muffle his snickers as the animal jumped out of the fridge and wandered away. "Shut up," Marvel snapped.

"I'm not saying anything," Cato chuckled.

"Good, so shut up." A jar sat on the top shelf of the fridge. Marvel curiously lifted it out. "Is that a photo in there?"

Cato took the jar and peered into it. "Yeah, I think it is." Inside the jar was a photograph of a boy. He looked about twenty years old and was completely unaware of a picture having been snapped of him. A disturbing thought came to mind. "You don't think Plutarch was one of those . . . pervert priests, do you?"

"I don't know what to think," Marvel replied, taking the jar back and staring into it to get a better look at the picture.

"NYPD FREEZE!" Katniss kicked the door in and swung her gun on them. Cato jumped out of his skin and Marvel nearly dropped the jar in shock but managed to catch it half way down. When she saw who it was, Katniss' face melted in rage. "What the fuck Cato?!" she shouted. "What are you doing here?!"

"I got lost on the way to the bathroom," Cato answered.

Katniss rolled her eyes and signalled for her men to put their guns away as well. "Did you find anything useful?"

"Unless you can make sense of that," Cato said, pointing at the writing on the wall.

Katniss' eyes darted quickly from side to side as she read the passage carefully. "He must be a religious satan-crazed freak or something. Maybe he thought Mr Odair and his boss had something to do with the Y2K predictions and was trying to take them out because of it . . ." Her eyes fell on the jar in Marvel's hands. "What's that?"

"A jar," Marvel replied. "One would use one to carry cookies or assorted treats of some description."

"I don't appreciate being patronized," Katniss snapped, grabbing the jar and peering inside of it. "Who's the guy inside it?"

"No idea," Cato answered. "Thought you would know."

The detective shrugged. "I've never seen him before in my life."

"It might mean something though," Cato pointed out.

"It could but I don't know what. I'll take it in as evidence but I don't see much coming from it," Katniss shrugged. Cato knew she was right. The photo would be inserted into a brown envelope and slipped into a top shelf where it would never be seen again. The NYPD didn't care about the boy in the picture, they were just happy they had caught their shooter. That _he _had caught their shooter. All of this was just routine now.

As Cato and Marvel were leaving (Katniss insisted they go since it was a possible crime scene), Cato took one last glance at the writing on the wall and committed it to memory.

_"When the thousand years are completed, Satan will be released from his prison." _

**A/N: *Le gasp* Marvel's a good guy? How did I manage this? :O**

**Please R&R with your thoughts! ^_^**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank to everyone who reviewed (and wasn't put off by all the warnings!) :D**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.**

**Chapter Two**

**New York City**

**28th December 1999**

Peeta was having a bad day. A bad, _bad _day.

As soon as he got home from visiting his parent's grave, he flew up the stairs faster than he thought possible. His stepmother, Alma, called him in worry but he assured her that everything was fine and he'd be down with her again in a moment. Alma was extremely overprotective. When she cared for him when he was a kid she wouldn't let him ride a bicycle out of fear of him falling. It was sweet in his childhood but a bit of a burden now that he was nineteen.

The moment Peeta entered his room, he dived for his pills and swallowed two of them dry. While filling a glass of water in his bathroom and trying to slow his pounding heart, Peeta dialled Doctor Snow's number. Reliable as always, his Doctor picked up on the second ring.

"Peeta, is everything alright?" Snow immediately asked.

"Uh, yeah, here's the thing, I think I need my dosage checked," Peeta said. He swallowed a load of water to wash down the pills and slowly inhaled through his nose and out through his mouth. "I'm starting to see things again and it's getting more vivid and very, very real."

"Okay, slow down and take it at a steady pace with me," Snow said. "Tell me, what did you see and where did it happen?"

"It was on the subway and I thought it was just a mentally unstable hobo at first," Peeta explained, leaving his bathroom and sitting on the edge of the bed. His parents had always been very wealthy and he never had to worry about being comfortable in the life that he currently lead after their deaths. That is, apart from the psychotic visions he had been experiencing ever since he was little.

"What happened?" asked Snow.

"He was right up in my face saying horrible things and then he sort of just turned into porcelin and shattered," Peeta answered. He shuddered, hating to have to recall the event. "Into a million pieces on the floor. Of course, once I started freaking out and people began to stare it all just disappeared, as usual."

"What sort of things was he saying to you?" Snow probed.

Peeta fearfully swallowed the lump in his throat. "He just kept saying the same thing over and over again."

"Which was . . . ?"

Peeta exhaled and took another sip of water before answering. "He kept saying, 'he's going to fuck you, Peeta' in this horrible, nasty manner."

There was a pause on the other line while Snow mulled it over. "I see. Well, I don't think your dosage needs looked at, Peeta, I think this is just side affects to the change of medication."

"Are you sure?" Peeta asked weakly.

"Positive. We'll discuss the vision at our next appointment and try and see if we can connect it to anything, okay?" asked Snow.

"Alright."

When he hung up, Peeta felt like screaming. All he ever did all his life was lie on a couch in Doctor Snow's office discussing dreams and visions he'd been having ever since he was little. There wasn't even a name for what was wrong, they just told him time and time again that it was a medical condition. But _what_ medical condition, they never said.

Alma popped her head anxiously around his door. "Peeta, you should have told me you had another vision," she scolded.

"Sorry, Alma, I just didn't want to worry you," Peeta replied. He was exhausted from everything that had happened that day and tried to smile reassuredly at his stepmother. She smiled back and sat beside him on the bed, wrapping a comforting arm around him and pulling his head onto her shoulder.

"Don't worry about me, I'm tough as old boots," she said, scruffing his hair like she used to do when he was eight.

"I wanted Snow to change my dosage," Peeta muttered.

"Again? Sweetheart, you know that's not possible," Alma said. "He's already changed your dosage three times in the past two months."

"And?" Peeta asked bitterly. "What difference would a fourth make?"

"You don't know what difference it could make. Obviously Snow doesn't want you having another change for a reason," Alma told him. She rubbed his back comfortingly and sighed. "Just push through it. It will all be better soon. Come New Year, I bet things will be looking up."

Peeta rolled his eyes. "If the world doesn't end first."

Alma laughed. "Yes, if the world doesn't end first."

~xXx~

It only took Cato ten seconds after he shut the door to his apartment to begin thinking about the passage written on Plutarch's wall again. _"When the thousand years are completed, Satan will be released from his prison." _What did it mean? Was it just a random saying or was there method to the madness? And what did the twenty seven stand for?

Wait . . . Plutarch was a priest, right? Suddenly enlightened, Cato went into his room and tore open his closet. He scrabbled along the top shelf for the only copy of the bible he had and almost whooped with joy when he found it. God, did he get worked up when he hadn't had a drink in six hours.

Sitting on his bed, Cato searched through every book in the copy of the Holy Bible. Who knew there were so damn many of them? First of all he tried to look at verses 27, the chapters 27, but that took too long so he cut it down. He searched for verses 2 and 7. Then 2-7. He got nothing. He almost gave up, too, until he just happened to fall upon the Book of Revelations, chapter twenty.

Cato's eyes widened in realization. It wasn't verse twenty seven or chapter twenty seven, nor was it two and seven, it was chapter _twenty_, verse_ seven._ There it was, in black and white, typed out in the tiny print that was the Times New Roman font of the bible pages.

_"When the thousand years are completed, Satan will be released from his prison."_

Huh. So Plutarch was quoting the Book of Revelations. But why? It still didn't add up. It obviously had something to do with the new millenia, given the 'thousand years' part of the passage.

_Curiosity would be the death of me_, Cato thought to himself as he checked sermons online to find out which church Plutrach did service at. It actually wasn't that far, a couple of blocks away on Seam Avenue. Okay, now he knew. Now he could relax and let Katniss take control of the situation. Cato sat on his bed, tapping impatiently at his knee with his fingertips. With a huff of exasperation, Cato stood up and grabbed his coat.

Again, curiosity was going to be the death of him.

It didn't take Cato long to get to Seam Avenue. He could walk pretty fast when he wanted to. Especially when his head was clear and alcohol free. The church was huge, looming over him like giant preparing to squash the ants beneath its feet. Cato shivered. He wasn't a believer himself and somehow it felt wrong hurrying up the steps and entering the building. Like he would be struck with lightening for daring to be so insolent.

A bunch of priests were gathered in a huddle in the middle of the aisle between the pews. A youthful looking man turned around at the sound of the doors opening and closing. Could priests be young? Wasn't there . . . years of training or studying or something?

"Sorry, we're closed," the man said.

Cato resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I didn't realize the House of God had opening hours," he replied sarcastically. Marvel would have smirked at that if he had have been there but the priest simply narrowed his eyes skeptically. "Look, I'm not here to pray, I'm here on business. About Father Plutarch?"

The man turned to his fellow fathers and murmured, "Go downstairs, I'll meet you in a moment." The men nodded and disappeared, one by one, off behind a door to the right of the altar. When they were all gone, the remaining priest turned back to Cato. "I've already spoken to the police about everything I know."

"I realize that but we just have a few more questions," said Cato. It wound Katniss up when he pretended he was still on the force but sometimes he got important information that she couldn't resist. Things she had missed out the first time around. "I didn't catch your name."

"Father Hawthorne," the man replied.

"Okay, well, Father Hawthorne, I didn't realize that followers of God-such as yourself-condoned violence such as shooting at innocent people in broad daylight." Cato could be professional, if he put the effort in, but he didn't have to worry about getting kicked out of anything for being unprofessional so half the time he didn't bother.

Father Hawthorne's eyes widened. "He shot at innocent people?" he asked.

"Well, innocent _person_. I kind of feel bad for that Finnick guy, he hadn't really done anything to deserve being shoved back into a limo and driven away in a hurry," Cato said. At the mention of Mr Odair's name, Father Hawthorne's eyes widened even further, if that were possible. "The force did tell you who Plutarch was shooting at, didn't they?"

"No," Father Hawthorne said curtly. "They didn't."

_Damn it Katniss._

"Well . . . it was Wall Street Banker Finnick Odair. He recently became the big cheese over there because of that explosion at Die Tribute Von Panem . . ." Damn, Marvel had him using that cheese term now.

"I know who Mr Odair is," Father Hawthorne said sharply.

Surprised by the man's tone, Cato raised his eyebrows. "Is it a new ruling for priests to use guns? I mean, sure, I've heard of nuns doing karate but this is a bit far, don't you think?"

Father Hawthorne spun on his heel and started walking up the aisle towards the door the others had retreated through. "We don't condone guns or violence of any sort. It is not the way of God," he replied. Completely confused, Cato followed, managing to stay on the Priest's heels despite his hasty speed.

"Then why did one of your priest's resort to it?" he asked.

Father Hawthorne suddenly turned around, causing Cato to almost walk right into him. "Are you a religious man, Cato?" he asked.

Taken aback by the question, Cato answered honestly and shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm not."

"Then how am I expected to explain something beyond your comprehension?" asked Father Hawthorne. He turned back around and mounted the altar. Cato stayed where he was, the fear of lightening sudddenly striking him dead churning in his gut. Especially since he had just admitted to not being a religious man.

"Beyond my . . . my _comprehension_? What has my faith got to do with your priest losing his nut and trying to shoot any innocent man?" Cato demanded.

Father Hawthorne blew out the candles that lit the church from top to bottom, plunging them into a cool dark. "Greater demons are at hand, things you wouldn't believe in a million years."

Cato didn't like being patronized. "Are you just covering up the fact that Plutarch was a pervert?"

Father Hawthorne looked at him in confusion. He didn't look angry. Just . . . lost. "Where in the world did you get that idea?" he asked.

"He had a picture of a boy half his age in his fridge," Cato said. "Look, I can let a lot of things slide but if that man's a molester I'll go right to that hospital myself and smother him with his own pillow."

"Blond hair, blue eyes? About 5'7?" asked Father Hawthorne.

"Who? The boy? Yeah, that sounds about right," Cato answered. "Wait, do you know him? Why does Plutarch have photos of him in his fridge?"

Hawthorne blessed himself and murmured under his breath, "May God have mercy on his soul."

Cato took a risk and mounted the first step leading up the altar. "What do you mean by that? Is the boy in danger?" Cato didn't know why he kept calling the person in the photo a boy, he was obviously twenty or so. He had a habit of doing that. Anyone even a little bit younger than him was automatically a boy in his head.

Hawthorne's gaze, for once, was sympathetic. "Go home, Cato. Enjoy the holidays. Celebrate New Year's." He went to the door at the right and muttered something that Cato just about caught as he disappeared into the room.

_"If we're all still here."_

"Wait! What do you mean by that?" Cato lurched towards the door and tried to get through but Hawthorne must have locked it. Damn priests and they need for privacy. What are they worried about? Someoen peeping on them while they changed their gowns?

Cato's quest for information had just left him with more questions. Back to square one.

~xXx~

_Peeta moaned into his pillow, unable to control himself as desire and eurphoria washed over his body in consuming waves. Being on his stomach meant that he couldn't see who it was that was making him feel so good but his brain was so clouded with lust that it hardly mattered. The hands that explored and groped his body were earnest and greedy but being touched in such a way sent a thrill through his being._

_The room was unbearably hot, the air so thick with warmth that he couldn't breathe properly. A tongue teased the back of his neck, the hairs immediately pricking up as cold air was blew on it. It was completely overwhelming, a mixture of tongue and teeth and gluttonous hands. It got to the point where it didn't even feel like sex anymore. It felt like he was being marked. Controlled, even._

_Mind clearing a little, Peeta squirmed to get out of his supposed lover's hold. He needed a moment to think things through, to get everything straightened out before his mind was consumed in the passion of the moment again and he couldn't think again._

_As if sensing that he was uneasy, his partner roughly pulled him around onto his back. Peeta only got a glimpse of bronze hair before his neck was being assaulted with knee weakening kisses. It hardly mattered, anyhow, Peeta subconsciously knew who it was. Delirious with longing, Peeta threaded his fingers through the silky orange hair, his hips immediately moving against his partner's in a smooth, sensual manner._

_A hand squeezed his upper thigh, using the hold to sling his leg around their waist. Having fallen back into his animalistic self, Peeta closed his eyes and purred as a finger entered him. Then another. And another. When the curious fingers found his pleasure bump, it felt like a thousand volts had been shredded through his body, melting him into a lavish, hungry mess._

_"Open your eyes and look at me, Peeta," a gentle but authorative voice demanded._

_Finding it difficult but somehow managing, Peeta forced his heavy eyes open and was met with the face of his lover. He had been right regarding their identity, it couldn't be anyone else, it was the man who's name he didn't even know. The man who had did this to him in his dreams ever since he was a child. Dark green eyes stared him hungrily, taking in every atom of his writhing form as if it were a birthday gift he still had to open._

_The man smirked, pressing his fingertips harder against Peeta's sweet spot. Peeta gasped, his body feeling like it was in total spasm. Sweat dripped from his temples as pressure built up in his abdamon. He needed to cum but he couldn't. Crying out in frustration, his back bowed in a perfect arch as the pleasure continued to attack him relentlessly. _

Peeta couldn't contain his scream as his eyes bolted open and he woke up. His hair was soaked in sweat and the quick beat of his heart caused his breathing to be erratic. Mere seconds later, Alma appeared, throwing the light on in his room. Her face was a picture of perfect horror, fear written all over her expression. "I'm sorry, Alma, it was only a dream," Peeta panted, unable to catch his breath again.

"Peeta, you scared the crap out of me," Alma replied, hand on her chest like a heart attack were imminate. Her expression softened. "What was it this time?"

Peeta stared at his duvet covers in shame. "It was him again."

A pause. "Doing the . . . ?" Alma trailed off, unsure as to how to finish.

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm sure it's natural for boys your age to dream about that sort of stuff," his step-mother said. She smiled. "You never know, that man who keeps appearing in your dreams may be your dream man."

Peeta smiled back, for Alma's sake. "Maybe," he said, even though he wasn't too sure. There was something about that man. Something about his face and his greedy touches and his cruelty in bed. It was the reason Peeta always woke up screaming. Because everytime that man appeared in his dreams, he felt an evil presence. This was constant, even through his frazzled brain.

And it still felt like the worst was yet to come.

**A/N: Please R&R with your thoughts! :-)**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Once again, thank you for all your lovely reviews! Your support keeps me writing! ^_^**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or the plot of End of Days.**

**Chapter Three**

**December 29th 1999**

Finnick knew how to be patient. He had been waiting a thousand years for the turn of the millenia and yet now, with only a few days to go, he found himself itching to find his gorgeous Peeta. He had treated his significent other to a particularly steamy dream the previous night, a taster to prepare the boy for that final hour of December 31st. Peeta had responded to it well, embracing the dream and the glorious euphoria it provided. He always did accept it, like his subconscious knew that there really was nothing to be afriad of.

The thing Finnick dreaded the most was the child bearing. He would obviously take Peeta back to hell with him to wait out the pregnancy there but, after watching the boy grow up, he knew he was in for a rough, extremely stubborn nine months topped off with the moodiness that automatically came with being pregnant. Peeta was not going to be an easy resident.

He tried not to focus on this, however, and instead tried to think of all the naughty endeavours and passionate nights that were to come. Sure, Peeta would be reluctant at first, but he was _born_ for the position of Satan's partner, husband, lover, child bearer, whatever you wanted to call him. He _would_ subject himself to the pleasure, willingly too. The cute little quirk as well was that the poor boy was still a virgin. How sweet of him, like he knew what his destiny was and saved himself for his one, true lover.

Peeta was everything Finnick could have wished for and more. He was perfect.

First things first, however, he had to take care of the bastard who tried to shoot him.

A police guard had blocked off the corridor leading to the ward in which Plutarch was being held in. Tall, middle-aged, not particulary striking in any way. The NYPD probably cleared out the whole ward just to hold one man, since he was a criminal, after all. The guard seemed surprised when Finnick approached the gate that cut off the corridor from the rest of the hospital.

"Sorry sir, this ward is closed off," he said.

Finnick nodded, feigning understanding. He leaned forward and the man instinctively mimicked the action, wondering what it was he was about to say. "The little boys you have seduced have left their scent on you," Finnick whispered, enjoying the moment where realization dawned on the guard and his face turned white as a sheet.

Without another word, the guard opened the gate and let him pass.

_"See you in hell,"_ Finnick thought as he turned the corner down into Plutarch's ward. The man's room wasn't hard to find. Just follow the laboured breathing and smell of blood. Finnick didn't need to look through the window to predict that the man was in critical condition. Oh, and he'd cut out his tongue, how cute.

Lighting up a cigar, Finnick entered Plutarch's room. The priest was asleep but that could be easily solved. "Plutarch," he sang, walking to the bed and giving the man a poke. "Plutarch!"

Plutarch's eyes fluttered open lazily. It took him a moment to get his bearings but as soon as his vision cleared and focused on Finnick, his heart rate moniter's readings spiked as the beat of his heart quickened. "Hello Plutarch," Finnick said, sitting on the edge of the bed and ignoring the man's panicked struggles. He was restrained to his bed to prevent escape and no matter how hard he jerked his body, he couldn't free himself. "It's lovely of you to remember me after all this time. How's my old pal the pope doing? Or haven't you been in touch since you lost your mind and started lobbing off limbs?"

Plutarch wasn't listening, he just continued to relentless struggle. It would be to no avail and subconsciously a part of him knew it but he kept trying none-the-less. Finnick watched with sick amusement, pulling the man's oxygen curtain out of the way and blowing some smoke into it. "You know why I'm here, don't you? I can't let you get away with trying to assasinate me and, besides, you've been trying to keep me away from my Peeta ever since he was born."

Panic was clear in Plutarch's eyes. The whites full and pupils dilated. He better be praying in his head.

He was going to need it.

~xXx~

"And he was found like that?"

"Exactly like that."

Cato stared at the photo Katniss had handed him in horror. He had came to the hospital to see if he could get anything else out of Plutarch-even though he had no tongue-but had been met by a gruesome sight of blood splattered floors and Katniss Everdeen yelling at people to hurry it up.

"I think I'm noticing a theme," Marvel pointed out. Plutarch had been found strapped to the ceiling above his bed, pinned by his hands and feet with pairs of scissors. He had been positioned with his arms outstretched and feet resting ontop of one another so it looked like he had been crucified. "I'm guessing this person isn't too big on religion."

"Or _is_ too big on it," Cato said.

"Katniss!" One of the men inside called. "We got him down!"

They all squeezed into the one hospital room, all eager to find out what the hell was going on. The body now lay on the bed, eyes having been shut as a sign of respect. Nearly every available piece of skin was coated in blood and, true to what the picture had shown, there were puncture wounds in the hands and feet. Just like if he had been crucified.

One of the autopsy doctors beckoned Katniss forward. "Words has been carved into the chest with what I persume to be the scissors that was then used to string him up," the doctor explained. A pair of glasses were perched on the end of her bird-like nose but looked more for show that necessity.

"You mean whoever did this carved him out alive?" asked Katniss.

The doctor nodded. "There is no way to be sure but I'd say so."

"What's been written?" Cato asked. The autospy doctor unbuttoned Plutarch's shirt and showed them. The angry, red, puss oozing letters didn't seem to go together or make sense. From what Cato could make of it anyway. "That's not english, right?"

"No, it's latin," the doctor answered. "Ut thousand annus es universa, Diabolus ero privatus ex suus carcer."

Cato stared at the doctor in confusion. "And that means?" Marvel prompted.

"When the thousand years are completed, Satan will be released from his prison," the doctor answered. She frowned. "What do you think that's supposed to mean?"

"It's from chapter twenty, verse seven of the book of revelations," said Cato. He felt proud of his bible knowledge but all he got was incredulous looks all round. So much for faith in humanity, these guys couldn't even believe it when he knew something they didn't!

"Up here near the chest, however, is english. See?" The doctor pointed out.

Along the curve just below Plutarch's collarbone, a name was sawed into his flesh. Cato had to twist his head at an awkward angle to try to get it to make sense or actually look like an actual word. "Pee-ta Mel-lark," he announciated. He looked at the doctor for guidance. She nodded.

"Peeta Mellark," she confirmed.

Katniss frowned. "I vaguely remember the name. I think that's the son of Damien Mellark. He died two years ago and left his house and wealth to his wife and son. You don't see the Mellarks around too often anymore. I don't think I've even ever seen the son's face myself. Things were never really the same since Damien's first wife Eileen was killed by a toaster."

"Suicide?" asked Cato.

"No," Katniss replied.

"Tried to get her crumpet out with a fork?" guessed Marvel.

"Nope."

How many other ways were there to get killed by a toaster?

Cato nodded thoughtfully. "Well, it looks like you've got things covered here. Marvel and I will just get out of your hair." He slinked to the door, trying to seem casual that, judging by Marvel's snickers behind him, obviously wasn't going very well. Katniss gave him a funny look but seemed glad to be rid of them, not protesting at all when they slipped out.

"Where are we going?" asked Marvel as they made their way out of the hospital.

Cato tried to slow down for Marvel's sake but found it very difficult. "I'm finding the closest yellow pages and finding out where Peeta Mellark lives."

~xXx~

_"Buona sera, sir, vi saremmo grati se poteste mostra dove il bagno?"_

Peeta listened to the phrase repeat itself twice befre having a stab at it himself. The headphones covering his ears blocked out any sound from the outside world, helping him concentrate only on the Italian phrases and nothing else. Himself and Alma were considering moving to Italy for a year and if they were going to he was going to have to learn some key phrases.

"Buona sera, sir, vi saremmo grati se poteste mostra dove il bagno?" Peeta repeated. The tape was turned up so loud he couldn't even hear his own voice most of the time. "Buona sera, sir, vi aremmo grati se poteste mostra dove il bagno?" He lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling as he did this, having nothing better to do than admire the paintwork while reciting Italian.

Static began to filter through his tape player. Peeta picked it up off his bed and gave it a shake, not entirely sure what to do to fix it. Did that mean it was broken or needed tuning or . . . what? The static cleared for a moment before filling the headphones again. Rolling his eyes, Peeta let his head fall back against the pillow and listened for the next phrase. If he concentrated hard enough, he would be able to hear it.

_"Ut thousand annus es universa, Diabolus ero privatus ex suus carcer."_

Wait, that didn't sound Italian. It sounded more like . . . Latin? Peeta didn't know a lot of Latin himself-it was more of Alma's thing than his-and couldn't understand why there was Latin on his Italian tape. Maybe it was a mistake. What did it mean, though?

_"Patefacio vestri oculi quod inviso mih."_

Again, Latin. How cheap was this thing exactly? Pawning off some of the Latin as Italian, Alma must have gotten the tape from a bargain bin. Not that that would have been a bad thing, except for the fact that there was Latin being used instead of Italian.

_"Peeta."_

Peeta jolted upright and ripped his headphones off. He stared at the tape player in horror, half expecting it to grow teeth and bite him right there and then. He snapped it open and gave the tape an extra shake before slipping it back in and replaying it again. Since he couldn't resume from where he left off, he had to forward it back to where he had been.

_"Peeta."_

Yup, that was definitely his name. But why? What was going on?

His thirst for answers won out and he pulled the headphones back on to hear what would come next.

_"Peeta, I am what you have been waiting for your entire life,"_ the robotic voice was long gone, replaced by the languid purr of the man that haunted Peeta's dreams. The man who he could temporarily kill with a couple of pills. The man who didn't exist._ "Give in to me and you will experience things you have only dreamed about until now."_

A wave of drowsiness washed over Peeta and he lay back down on the bed, too entranced with the voice on his recorder to take his headphones off. The air in the room had changed from cool to humid and within seconds he was sweating. Why was it so warm? Peeta sank further into the bed so his chin pushed against his chest. God, was he tired. It had came over him all of a sudden.

_"Fall asleep and I can make you feel good."_

Peeta's eyes fluttered as he tried to fight sleep. If he slept during the day then he'd be awake all night and it would begin an endless cycle . . .

_"Fall asleep."_

His head lolled to the side and his eyes gave in. What harm would a few minutes rest do anyway?

_"Asleep."_

Peeta had just dipped into the first lazy moments of sleep, a sensation that felt like hands cupping his face and pulling him in overcoming his senses, when his bedroom door knocked and the butler, Thom, came in. The presence of someone else in the room broke the spell and Peeta snapped to attention, blinking away thoughts of sleep and quickly pulling his headphones off.

"Yes, Thom?" he asked.

"Alma wishes to meet you for lunch at the White Rose," Thom said. Peeta hated the formal manner in which the butler addressed him with but no matter how many times he tried to get Thom to stop, he wouldn't. Old habits die hard, he supposed.

"Okay, thank you Thom. Tell her I'll just have a quick shower and meet her there in half an hour." Despite having already convinced himself that he had fallen asleep while practicing Italian and started dreaming about the dream man's voice being on the tape, Peeta was still somehow unexplainably sweaty.

When Thom left, Peeta quickly tugged his clothes off and hopped into the shower in the en suite bathroom. He washed quickly, not wanting to have to leave his step-mother waiting too long, and was out again in no time. Once dried off, he pulled on a pair of fresh underwear and set about sorting the tangle of knots that was his hair out. Everything was fogged up, the air filled with steam, and Peeta could barely see two inches in front of himself.

On his way out, Peeta stepped on something wet. He looked down with a frown, confused as to why the floor had a puddle. He was completely dry and the shower cubicle didn't leak, so where did it come from? Peeta's blood ran cold when he saw that he had stepped into a pool of watery red liquid that seemed to be spilling from around the corner, at the part of the bathroom that exited out into Alma's room. Peeta was afriad as it what he might find but investigated anyway, cautiously padding around the corner to see where it was coming from.

His stomach bottomed out when he saw Thom's body lying in the filled bathtub, a giant slit across his throat. His eyes were open but unseeing. Peeta didn't have to check his pulse to know he was dead. He felt sick. Who would do this? And why to Thom? A horrible thought made the illness churning in Peeta's stomach almost force its way up his throat.

Where they still here?

As if to answer the question, a bald man dressed in black suddenly lurched out from behind Alma's shower curtain. He yelled, battle cry style, and tried to wrap his arms around Peeta's waist to grab him. Peeta screamed in surprise, jabbed his elbow into the man's ribs and stamped on his foot, slipping out of the man's grasp and fleeing from the bathroom as fast as he could.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, what was happening? Peeta could barely hear his own thoughts over his pounding heart. He stumbled into his room and slammed the door shut, dragging his chest of drawers across the floor and pushing it up against it. He ran around his bed to quickly barricade Alma's side of the bathroom as well when two more men came in through his bedroom door.

Peeta lunged at the first thing he could find, tearing a lamp out of its socket and weilding it like a baseball bat. He jumped onto his bed to give himself some height, ready to globber either of them if they tried to touch him. This simply amused the two men and they advanced on him fearlessly. Not liking how close they were getting, Peeta took a swing with the lamp at the nearest man, which he simply ducked out of the way of it.

The second man grabbed the lead of the lamp when Peeta tried to swing it again and yanked it out of his hands. The force caused the younger boy to stumble forward a little but he regained his footing and dived down, grabbing his tape record player and smacking the first man across the head with it. Once, twice, a third time. A small gash broke out on his temple but he barely noticed, finally giving up on trying to be gentle and rugby tackling Peeta onto his back on the bed.

Peeta screamed again and lashed out, trying to land as many punches and kicks as he could onto his attacker's body until he tired. The man holding the lamp fired it out the window, the glass shattering to create a lamp-shaped hole. Peeta struggled helplessly but the men were too strong for him. They pinned his arms to the bed, holding him in place on the mattress.

The bald man from the bathroom rushed in-persumably having escaped through Alma's room-and quickly sat ontop of Peeta on the bed. "Get off me!" Peeta yelled, trying to unseat the fat man from his hips.

The bald, fat man did the sign of the cross over Peeta's body-wait, was he _blessing him_?-and started chanting something under his breath. Peeta strained to hear but couldn't make it out so he continued to kick out, hoping he could make the jerk lose balance and fall on his fat ass.

At the exact same time, Cato was walking along the sidewalk with Marvel, discussing what had happened Plutarch earlier in the hospital. It hadn't taken them long to find the Mellark address and with the help of Marvel's van they were now just a couple of metres away from the 'manor' as the yellow pages called it.

"So why do you think this kid's name was carved into Plutarch's chest?" asked Marvel.

"I don't know, but you saw the picture in the book. It's the same boy from the photo in the jar," Cato replied. "It all has to be connected somehow." It was a cool afternoon but the sun was down low, causing everything to sparkle with an unnecessarily bright light. The picture of Peeta in the yellow pages had been a lot more clear than the photo in the jar had been. The boy was extremely attractive, with a smile that lit up his entire face, sharp features and gorgeous long eyelashes. For a brief moment Cato had wondered what the boy's relationship status was but quickly dismissed the thought.

As Cato and Marvel approached the house, Cato immediately knew something was wrong. A lamp lay shattered on the sidewalk and a window was smashed to pieces on the upper floor. Cato stopped in the middle of the street and held his hand up for Marvel to be silent. When the noise had settled it became clear that someone was screaming inside.

Cato yanked his gun out of the holster on his hip and ran up the steps, kicking the door in with one almightly kick. The mahogany frame groaned and splintered but he paid no notice. The screams were louder now and obviously coming from upstairs. As he ran up, a goon appeared to block his path but Cato shot him in the kneecaps and he went down like stones.

"Marvel, cover the downstairs!"

"Got it!"

He ran up the stairs two at a time and was immediately mowed over by another henchmen. "No!" the attacker roared as they hit the floor. "He must perform last rites!"

Cato decked the guy, blood spurting from his mouth and jaw dislocating instantly. Cato kneed his groin and rolled them over so he was on top of him. Shoving his gun under the guy's chin, he yelled, "What do you mean last rites?!"

When the goon didn't answer, Cato knocked him out with the butt of his gun and follwed the screams to a bedroom at the end of the hall. He arrived just in time for a stout, bald man to declare, "Amen!" and raise a dagger above his head. The boy underneath him-who Cato realized was Peeta Mellark-screamed, squeezing his eyes shut to await the blow.

Cato lunged towards the man and grabbed him on the way down, bringing him to the floor instantly and sitting ontop of him just like he had just done to Peeta. He turned to the startled boy and shouted, "Run!" Peeta didn't need to be told twice and fleed the room as quick as he could.

"Who are you?!" Cato shouted at the bald man. "What do you want with that boy?!"

"You don't understand what you're doing!" the bald man shouted back. "I almost did it! I was almost there!"

"You almost took a life, which counts as attempted murder," Cato replied, sticking the nozzle of his gun against the man's flabby neck. "Tell me why!"

"I performed last rites, his soul would have went to heaven!" the crazy man barked back angrily. "You had no right to-You have no idea what you have brought upon us you blundering cretin!" Cato growled and had half a mind to squeeze the trigger when something came to mind. Last rites . . . Heaven . . . Souls? More religious junk.

In his moment of pause, the fat man punched him in the face, knocking Cato off of him so he had room to scramble away. Cato tried to grab and pull him back, but only grasped the chain around his neck which snapped off into his hand. When the crazy man reached the window, he climbed out and disappeared. The other two goons vanished too, probably having ran off with their boss.

"Peeta?" Cato called wearily, exhausted. He pushed himself to his feet and exited the room out into the hallway. "Peeta, where are you?"

The younger boy revealed himself at the top of the hall, standing nearly completely naked and trembling like a purse puppy. Cato tried not to stare the smooth, milky complexion of Peeta's skin and focused at the problem at hand. "Are they gone?" he asked.

Cato nodded. "Yes, they are."

"You're a good guy, right?" Peeta asked nervously.

"Yeah, I am." Cato glanced down the stairs, at where Marvel stood with gun still in hand. He was staring up at him in avid curiosity. "He's a good guy too."

Peeta stepped forward, his approach slow but careful. "Who were those guys?" he asked.

"I have no idea." Cato opened his hand and looked at the necklace he had ripped from the neck of the man who was about to stab Peeta. There was a charm looped through the chain. It was a heart, encircled by thorns, with a knife through the top of it. It must have been a religious thing. Wasn't the thorns a symbol for something?

Peeta peered at the charm, keeping a weary distance between himself and Cato. "Is that the sacred heart?" he asked.

"What's the sacred heart?" Cato asked back.

"I can't be sure but I think it's a religious thing," Peeta replied. He looked up at Cato and said, "Now that I think about it, I think I saw a dog collar on that guy who was about to stab me's neck. He also did the sign of the cross and murmured the last rites."

Why was all of this to do with religion? Was it some sick joke? And why were all these priests in dog collars committing such random acts of violence? Peeta took the charm and held it up to the light, the chain wrapping itself losing around his fingers. "I don't have a good feeling about this," he murmured.

Cato shook his head. "Neither do I."

**A/N: What do you guys think? Priests gone wild? **

**Please R&R! :D**


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews everyone! :D**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or the plot for End of Days.**

**Chapter Four**

The police arrived at Peeta's house an hour after the attack. Katniss and her pack of snoops probed and prodded every possible corner and nook in Peeta's house. Cato was surprised when she allowed him to stick around, since normally when he and Marvel lingered on a crime scene she would politely tell them to get the hell out of her way. He supposed it was because they were both involved with what transpired in the Mellark household.

Peeta himself was spooked but didn't let it overcome him. He stalked around the house, no longer in his underwear and wearing a fresh pair of clothes, and only spoke when asked a question. Katniss had spent a great deal of time grilling him about what he remembered, saw, experienced. She was brutal and pushy but that was how answers were recovered, Cato supposed.

Cato had been passing Peeta's bedroom when he saw him downing a handful of pills. Was he taking _drugs?_ Unsure, curious and extremely nosey, Cato knocked on the door. "Knock, knock," he said. Peeta turned around, the pill bottle rattling with him. Cato couldn't help but admire how brave he was. He hadn't shown a shadow of panic or fear over what had happened him. "You okay?"

"Uh-huh," Peeta replied. He noticed how Cato's eyes kept flickering to the bottle of pills. "You want one? I take them to calm myself down."

"They're . . . legal, right?" Cato asked unsurely.

Peeta narrowed his eyes. "Of course they're legal," he replied.

"Just checking," Cato said. Peeta nodded at the bottle, proposing his previous question with the gesture. "No, thanks, I'm good."

"Suit yourself." Peeta shrugged and pocketed the pill bottle. He fell back onto the sofa and sighed. "The sooner this day is over, the better."

"Do you have any idea what might have triggered those guys' . . . actions?" asked Cato.

The younger boy groaned and threw a cushion over his face. "Please, no more questions," he moaned. "I don't know anything. I had been sitting in my room, doing nothing special before going to the bathroom to have a shower. When I came out, Thom was dead and I was being attacked by those freaks. I've never seen any of them before in my entire life and I don't know why they attacked me."

"Well, they certainly knew you. Unless they just decided to break into a random house and spontaneously kill whoever was inside," Cato pointed out. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the boy on the sofa, especially when he moved the pillow away from his face and stared at him skeptically with the deep blue jewels he called his eyes. "And since it all seemed extremely merticulously planned, I don't think that's the case."

Peeta shrugged and sat up again. "I don't even go to church, how would I have angered a bunch of priests anyway?"

"Really?" Cato glanced behind himself at the entrance to Peeta's room. "I saw a whole boatload of bibles out there."

"They're my stepmother's," Peeta sighed.

"Is she overly religious? Maybe she knows those guys?" Cato suggested.

"No, she's not overly religious. It's more like a hobby, you know?" answered Peeta.

The sound of the front door opening and slamming closed again shook the house, followed by a high pitched screech of, "PEETA!"

Peeta winced and shook his head. "Speak of the devil." He stood up and exited his room, Cato following close behind. He couldn't let this boy out of his sight for a second. He liked to let himself think that it was for safety purposes but the truth was the boy drew him in in ways he couldn't explain.

As soon as Peeta made it down the stairs, he was attacked by a tall woman with greying hair. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed so tight Cato worried that Peeta was going to pop. "Oh Peeta, I can't believe it. Are you alright? Were you hurt?" she asked.

"I'm fine, Alma," Peeta replied. His stepmother didn't give in however and started searching his arms and face for any visible sign of injury. "Seriously, they didn't hurt me."

Alma's eyes drifted over Peeta's shoulder and landed on Cato. There was something in her dark gaze that struck him as odd. She smiled. "Are you the man who saved my boy's life?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah, I guess you could say that," Cato answered. Hearing it out loud sounded strange, even though he saved lives for a living. He had never been openly thanked before.

"Thank you so much!" the over emotional woman declared. She turned to Peeta and hugged him again, clutching his back as if he were going to disappear right before her eyes. "I don't know what we'd do without him."

We? Who was we? Even Peeta seemed confused, a moment of perplexion crossing his features before disappearing again. Cato couldn't shake the feeling that, despite her seemingly thankful facade, Alma had something else on her mind. He didn't question that her thankfulness wasn't genuine-he could tell from how he was squeezing Peeta like a rag doll that she was-but it didn't seem to be the thankfulness of a woman who's stepson had just been saved. It seemed like the joy of a plan that had been so close to being foiled having been saved at last minute.

But what plan?

It took over three hours for Katniss' crew to get everything they needed. Once Alma had returned, she didn't leave Peeta's side. She stuck to him like a leech, as if expecting more creepy priests to lurch out of the shadows and attack him again. Marvel followed Katniss around, loving to antagonize her and wind her up. He claimed it made her more hot. And Cato . . . well . . . Cato stayed in the same room as Peeta at all times.

When the police finally filed out, it was extremely late. Peeta had managed to prise his stepmother from his side and insist that she go upstairs and rest. Cato and Marvel were about to leave as well, given the time and the lack of need of their presence.

Marvel was already outside and down the steps. Cato paused in the doorway, a thought suddenly coming to mind. He pulled the chain out of his pocket and held it up to the light. Sacred heart. Priests. Book of Revelations Chapter 20, verse 7. It had to be connected. It just had to be.

"Cato?" Marvel called from the bottom of the steps.

"You go on to the van, I'll be there in a minute. I just need to talk to Peeta about something," Cato said.

Shrugging, Marvel did as he was told and went to the van. Cato walked back into the living room, where Peeta was throwing an apple up into the air and seeing how many times he could catch it. When he saw Cato again, he paused. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"This isn't the Sacred Heart," said Cato. He held up the necklace so Peeta could see it again.

"Uh, yeah, it is," Peeta said. "I've seen it before. It's the Sacred Heart."

"No, I remember seeing it now too. On some programme or something." Cato moved closer to Peeta and showed him the charm. "The Sacred Heart doesn't have a knife through it. It has a cross sticking out from the top."

Peeta frowned, picking up the charm and rubbing his thumb along the knife. "Oh yeah," he murmured. He glanced at Cato. "But what does that mean?"

"Maybe it's a symbol. Like a cult or something," Cato explained.

"A cult of priests?"

"It can happen. A priest was arrested yesterday who went by the name of Plutarch. He tried to kill a man named Finnick Odair yesterday and had been admitted to hospital for gunshot wounds. He was found dead this morning," Cato explained.

Peeta walked to a small table and put the apple down onto a silver plate. "But what's that got to do with me?" he asked.

"When we searched his house, we found a picture of you in his fridge," Cato answered. Peeta's eyes widened in alarm. "And when he was killed, your name was carved onto his chest along with a message in latin."

Peeta's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "What was the message?" he asked.

"I might not be pronouncing this right but it was something along the lines of, _Ut thousand annus es universa, Diabolus ero privatus ex suus carcer._ It means 'When the thousand years are completed, Satan will be released from his prison'."

"Peeta?" Alma called from upstairs. "Is that man still here?"

"Uh, yeah Alma, we just need a few more minutes!" Peeta called back. He directed his gaze back to Cato. "You better start making sense because you're starting to scare the hell out of me."

"Do you know this Plutarch man? Maybe he has something to do with the people who tried to kill you?" Cato pressed.

Peeta shook his head. "I don't know a Plutarch. I don't know any priests," he insisted. He brushed a nervous hand through his hair and said, "But I do recognize the latin."

Cato raised his eyebrows. "You do? Where did you hear it?"

"Uh, Alma and I were planning to move to Italy for a year so I've been teaching myself Italian. Except earlier today, before I went into the shower and was attacked, the Italian phrases turned to latin. It said _Ut thousand annus es universa, Diabolus ero privatus ex suus carcer_ among other things. My tape has never had latin on it before," Peeta explained. His hands shook and he inhaled deeply, trying to smooth down his nerves.

This was just getting more and more confusing. "Peeta," Cato said, "I'm going to be open and completely honest with you. I'm not comfortable leaving you here and I don't think you're at all safe."

Peeta looked terrified but nodded. "I don't feel safe either."

As soon as he spoke, an explosion ripped through the air outside. An inferno blazed upwards, causing the windows in the living room to explode. Cato hit the deck, pulling Peeta down with him, shielding the boy from the worst of the blast. The air was immediately filled with thick, unbearable heat. Cato quickly stood up again and ran to the door, throwing it open to find the source of the explosion.

And found Marvel's van up in flames.

"Marvel!" Cato screamed, hoping that his friend hadn't been in the van at the time of explosion. That he went to the subway down the road to get a meatball sub before getting into the van. That he was alive and well, even though he knew it was pointless.

Marvel was dead.

Trying to keep his emotions in check, Cato spun around to find that Peeta had ran out into the hall and was standing a few feet away. His face was panicked and afraid, no longer able to keep up the collected poker face he had worn earlier. Cato quickly went back into the living room and grabbed the Scared-Heart-but-not-really necklace and grabbed Peeta's hand.

"We need to get out of here," he said.

Before Peeta had a chance to respond, a heavy weight barged right into Cato, knocking him right off his feet. His attacker squealed this high-pitched screech and started clawing at his face with sharp as knives nails. "He's not going anywhere!" Alma roared at him.

"Alma!" Peeta screamed, horrified at what his stepmother was doing. He tried to yank her off of Cato by grabbing her arms but she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and threw him backwards into the wall behind him with surprising strength, effectively winding him. She wasn't allowed to hurt him severely, they were her orders.

"You crazy bitch," Cato muttered. He punched the woman in the face and pushed her off of him. She stumbled back, a crazed look in her eyes. Blood trickled from her lip and her nose was twisted at a weird angle but she showed no pain on her face. She lunged at Cato again, shocking him with her speed and strength, and threw him into a mirror that hung on the wall.

The mirror shattered into a thousand shards, each sharp edge slicing Cato's skin as he hit the ground hard. Was this woman a street fighter in a past life? Forcing himself to his feet, despite his body screaming for him to stop moving, Cato turned to face Alma. The lunatic stepmum, however, was one step ahead of him and pushed the piano that had been sitting by the window so that it surged towards him at an alarming pace. It crushed Cato against the wall, the impact knocking the air from his lungs.

Peeta had gained his feet and jumped at his stepmother. "Alma, stop this!" he shouted, enclosing her in his arms and struggling to keep her still. "What's the matter with you?!"

"Satan has risen from his pit!" Alma cackled manically. "And he's coming! He's coming for you Peeta!" She jabbed her elbow into Peeta's ribcage and pushed him to the floor when he doubled over in pain.

Cato pushed the piano away from himself and dropped to the ground, feigning injury. Alma cocked her head and grinned like a sicko, reveling in his pain. Cato enclosed a shard of mirror in his hand, ignoring the pain when the edges pushed into his skin.

Alma loomed over him, her hair sticking up at all roads and blood staining her teeth red. "No one can stop the beast once he is released!" she declared. "The End of Days is near and you can't stop it!"

"Oh yeah?" Cato jumped to his feet and lunged at Alma, jabbing the mirror shard into her neck. She screamed in agony as blood spurted from her neck like a fountain, splattering Cato's face as well as her own. She sank, leaning against the piano for support. She didn't immediately die, instead just lay there, chest heaving as she fought for breath.

Cato ran to Peeta and helped him to his feet. Peeta looked at his stepmother with tears in his eyes, unable to understand why she did what she did. Cato turned Peeta to face him. "Are you coming with me? If you do, I promise you'll be safe."

Peeta nodded rapidly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Glad that he didn't have to leave him behind, Cato grabbed his hand and they both ran to the door. The fire had spread from where it had began across the road and blocked their exit from the house. How could the flames have reached the doorway so fast?

"Is there a window with a fire escape?" Cato asked.

"Yeah, there's a fire escape beside Alma's room. It's from the next apartment over but you can reach it if you stretch," Peeta answered. They ran up the stairs as quick as they could manage in their injured state.

When they reached the top, a voice called from outside, _"Peeta."_ The voice was masculine, the tone almost jolly and teasing. Cato felt Peeta tense beside him and the boy stopped dead, turning around to stare at the doorway with wide eyes.

A man walked through the flames that licked the doorway, doing so with ease and coming out completely unharmed. Cato couldn't believe it. It was _Finnick Odair._ What the hell was he doing here? Only now that Cato could see him properly, there was something off about the man. Something in the look in his eyes. It was dark, almost evil.

Peeta stared at Finnick in horror, as if all his nightmares had come true at once. Did he know Finnick? He must do. That was definitely recognition Cato could see on the boy's face.

"You know who I am, don't you, Peeta?" Finnick said, a sly grin on his face.

Cato didn't like the look of this guy and knew he was trouble. He tugged on Peeta's hand. "Come on, we have to go," he insisted.

Peeta turned away from Finnick and nodded, weaving around Cato and showing him where Alma's room was. Hearts pounding, they both climbed out the window and climbed down the fire escape. It was strange that Finnick did not follow, as if he wasn't at all concerned about their escape.

Once on the ground, both boys hid behind a wall. Cato wanted to be sure that they weren't being followed. Peeta was compliant and stood beside him without a word, clearly shaken up from what he had just been through. Cato was still running on adrenalin, knowing that the impact of everything that had happened was going to hit him hard later on but ignoring it for the time being.

Peering around the wall, Cato saw the familiar blue and red flash of a police siren light. Two figures got out of the car and as they got closer, Cato could make them out through the rainy haze. Oh thank God! It was Katniss and one of her NYPD drones!

"Katniss, you have no idea how thankful I am to see you-" As soon as Cato stepped out from behind the wall, Katniss opened fire at him. Lurching back behind the wall before the bullets could harm him and bumping into Peeta in the process, Cato yelled, "Katniss, what the fuck, it's Cato!"

"We know," Katniss replied. Cato heard her cock her gun again as she spoke. "We don't want you, we just want the boy."

Peeta looked at Cato, blue eyes filled with fear. He obviously thought Cato was going to hand him over. "What for?" Cato demanded to know.

"It is none of your concern," Katniss simply replied. If she had have just wanted to take Peeta into questioning, there was no reason why she couldn't just say. Cato had a bad feeling about all this. How was he supposed to get past with Peeta if Katniss was going to shoot him and kidnap Peeta? Making a fleeting decision, Cato stepped out from behind the wall with his hands in the air.

Katniss didn't take another shot at him, obviously seeing his submissive pose and taking it a surrender. She lowered her gun with a cocky smirk. Oh, if only she knew. Cato pulled both guns that he kept hidden in his backpockets out and opened fire, nailing both Katniss and her drone before they even had a chance to process what was happening. There had been many a time where Cato had fantasized about shooting Katniss but, as he watched her body fall to the ground, he realized that it wasn't as satisfying as he thought it would have been.

Peeta emerged from behind the wall, looking tiny and afraid. Cato jerked his head and muttered, "Follow me."

He didn't have to turn around to know that Peeta would follow.

~xXx~

Finnick turned his nose up at the pathetic excuse for a servant currently choking in a pool of her own blood. Her legs had betrayed her and she now lay slumped against the leg of a demolished piano. "You had_ one_ job," Finnick snapped at her, ignoring how she stared at him in awe and amazement. "And you couldn't even do that."

"I . . . I . . . sorry," she croaked, the blood that poured from her neck getting thicker and thicker the slower she died.

Crouching in front of her, Finnick grabbed the piece of glass that stuck out from her juglar and twisted it violently, smirking as she screamed in pain. "Your soul will rot in a pit of despair before I'd ever let you join me in my domain," he hissed at her.

Eyes wide in fear, she whispered, "You . . . p-p-promise-d-d. M-me and Sn-Snow-"

"Snow is dead you idiot. I killed him," Finnick said. He laughed at her horrified expression. "Did you really think I was going to spare you? Your job was to simply protect Peeta until it was time. And you weren't even capable of doing that. What if the Vatican Killers had gotten what they had set out to do? What if they had been able to kill him and send his soul to heaven? What would we have done then? Huh?"

"I . . ." Alma screamed as Finnick twisted the glass shard again to cut off her words. He stood up and spat on her.

"I don't want to hear your excuses you sick excuse for a servant." He turned his back on her and walked away, following the path that his beloved and that meddler took. Up the stairs, through Alma's room and down a fire escape. Finnick ignored the escape and jumped from the window, landing on his feet without breaking a single bone.

He was met by the sight of two bodies. Urgh, more of his followers. Couldn't they do anything right? He looked at the drone and rolled his eyes. "I have no use for you," he said. Turning to the Everdeen woman, he said, "However, you will be of great use." He flicked his finger. "Call your people. You know what to do."

Finnick walked away and left the alleyway in which Cato and Peeta had been in only ten minutes before.

He wasn't even gone a minute before Katniss rose to her feet and walked away.

**A/N: Ooooooh, shit is starting to go down! (:**

**Please R&R! **


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The police were looking for them.

Cato and Peeta stumbled around in the dark for what felt like hours. The ground was wet and the air was cold but Cato was past feeling it. The weight of everything had finally begun to sink in. Marvel was dead. He shot a police officer and Katniss. All for this one boy. This one boy he barely even knew. In fact, this boy who-a week ago-he didn't even know existed.

Cato stopped in a stretch of woodland, dragging Peeta to a stop as well. "You better start telling me what's going on," he growled.

Peeta leaned against a tree, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. "I don't know," he answered.

"Who was that man?" Cato pushed, past the point of caring whether Peeta was in a fit enough state to be grilled for answers.

"I don't know," Peeta repeated. Even though he was saying the same thing, his voice was different this time. It was chopped and defensive. He said it very quickly, almost not letting Cato finish his sentence before saying it.

"My best friend is dead. I shot a police officer and a girl I knew since I was five years old. All for you. So don't play dumb!" Cato hissed. "You recognized that man, I know you did. You stopped and stared at him! You tensed at the sound of his voice! Who is he?" Cato saw how terrified he had made Peeta just by shouting at him and tried to soften his approach. "I want to help. I can't do that though if you're holding back from me."

Peeta closed his eyes and nodded. His face was soaked with tears, cheeks shining in the faint light provided by the distant streetlights. "Yes, I know him," he admitted.

"From where?" Cato asked.

"I dream about him . . ." Peeta trailed off and frowned to himself. "He's always in my dreams."

Cato's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "Your dreams? What's he doing in your dreams?"

Peeta shamefully looked away, unable to hold eye contact. He couldn't keep still, his trembling fingers fumbling over one another. "He makes love to me," he whispered. Cato rolled his eyes, having enough of this rubbish. Peeta saw how he didn't believe him and scowled. "It's true. You wanted to know, well now you know! And I don't know if I'll be able to resist him if he tries anything!"

Cato watched Peeta pull his pill bottle out of his pocket, desperately needing to calm himself down. His shaky hands caused him to drop it, all of the medication falling out and getting mixed with the dirt. "Damn it!" Peeta cried, falling to his knees and trying to get them back.

"Peeta, stop," Cato wrapped an arm around Peeta and pulled him back up to his feet. "I think I know someone who might help us."

~xXx~

Father Hawthorne wasn't too happy to see Cato again. "Look Cato," he began, "I told you before-" He paused when he saw who came through the door behind him. Surprise flashed in his eyes but he quickly hid it before it was visible. "You better come with me."

Cato followed the priest, Peeta hot on his heels, as he entered the room that had been closed off to him before. They descended down a set of cold, stone spiral stairs and came out into what looked like an underground bunker. Priests were working en masse inside, on computers and phones, all of them constantly on the buzz. Father Hawthorne lead them through the basement until they reached the back.

Despite their dedicated work ethic, everyone stared at them as they passed, most gazes lingering in awe on Peeta. Neither could understand why but Cato hoped Hawthorne was going to explain everything to them.

Hawthorne treated Peeta with a lot more kindness and respect than he did with Cato. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"I think so," Peeta replied, confused by the concern from the man he barely knew.

"You better tell us what the hell's going on," said Cato.

The priest sighed and shook his head. "I wouldn't even know where to begin explaining."

"Try from the beginning," suggested Cato.

"Okay . . . well . . . It is said that every thousand years, Satan will rise from his pit and impregnant a human with his seed. This baby would become the destroyer of the earth: the anti-christ. Of course, Satan can't just do this with any human, he has to choose specifically," Hawthorne began to explain. Catol rolled his eyes, wishing they could cut the religious crap and get straight to the real problem. Peeta, however, listened with great interest.

"Satan chose that he would go against how God chose the human race should reproduce and that he would impregnant a man instead of a woman," Hawthorne continued to explain. He lead them to a table which was covered in papers.

"Can we get to the root of the problem and cut this rubbish out?" Cato asked, exasperated.

"I am explaining the problem. I did say that if you didn't have faith it was to be difficult, didn't I?" Hawthorne replied. He turned to Peeta and forced a smile, continuing the story. "The one to be born as Satan's eternal lover was to be marked with this birthmark." He handed Peeta book and pointed at a picture of a curvy horseshoe.

Cato peered over Peeta's shoulder to examine the image as well.

"Does it look familiar?" asked Hawthorne.

Peeta nodded. Cato looked at him in surprise. Was he buying all of this bullshit? The younger blond put the book down and held out his arm. It took Cato a moment to see it but, the longer he stared, the more clear it became. Branded on his arm was the exact same curvy horseshoe. Okay, he had to admit, that was trippy.

Hawthorne inhaled sharply. "It is you," he said.

"This is stupid," Cato said. "Peeta isn't Satan's lover or whatever you're talking about. He can't even bear children because he's a man!"

Hawthorne regarded Cato as if he thought he were stupid. "Cato, this is Satan we're talking about," he said. "Do you really think he considers what's impossible and what's not?"

Cato considered that. Probably not. "What about Plutarch? Where does he fit into this?"

"Plutarch was sent by the Pope on the day Peeta was born to keep an eye on and protect him. However, he was unable to get close to him as Satan's followers had gotten there first. They fixed themselves into his life so that he'd trust them and wouldn't question them if they someday took him to meet a man who would later take him away from his life and drag him to hell," Hawthorne explained.

Peeta's face was white as a sheet and he looked a little green. "Alma . . . She was . . . but she was my stepmother . . ."

"How did you mother die, Peeta?" asked Hawthorne. "Your real mother?"

"An accident with a toaster," answered Peeta. He frowned. "Only it wasn't plugged in at the time . . ."

Hawthorne lay a sympathetic hand on Peeta's shoulder. "I'm sorry for what you have been through," he said.

Cato was incredulous. This was ridiculous! "And what about those people who attacked Peeta today? Were they Satan whorshippers?" Seeing Hawthorne's lost expression, he produced the necklace he had ripped off the head guy's neck. Upon seeing it Hawthorne looked ashamed.

"The Vatican Killers. They think they're doing God's will . . . They wish to kill Peeta before Satan finds him, to save us from the End of Days," he explained. "But that is not God's way. We must keep him safe until New Year's. Down here, where he can't find us. Satan cannot see into a house of god."

"Why New Year's?" asked Cato.

"The baby must be conceived on the last hour before New Year's Day," Hawthorne answered. "If we can hide him until then, we'll be safe."

Cato shook his head. He wasn't going to listen to this crap anymore. "I'm sorry Father but this is all just religious rubbish. Peeta isn't being stalked by Satan, he's being harrassed by a pack of nutjobs," he said. He turned to go but paused when he realized Peeta wasn't following him. "Peeta? Are you coming?"

Peeta shook his head. "No. What he says feels like it's the truth. I feel it in my gut," he said. "I'm staying."

"You'd be safer with me," Cato promised. His heart sank when Peeta still refused, shaking his head defiantly. Hiding his disappointment, he said, "Fine, suit yourself," and left the church without another word.

~xXx~

After everything that had happened, going back to his apartment seemed so mediocre and boring. Cato wished Peeta had came with him. He hated that he had fallen under the spell of Hawthorne's religious fairytales. Why couldn't he see that it was all fake and a load of bullshit? _Satan's lover?_ It was ludicris! And it was impossible for two men to conceive, it was basic Biology. Satan or no Satan, Peeta's insides were not a hospitable environment for a fetus. There was no possible way he could carry a child.

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?"

Cato jumped in shock and spun around, his heart plummenting at the sight of Finnick Odair leaning against the wall by his window. He was wearing an annoying shit eating smirk that Cato wanted to punch back off. How did he get in anyway? The windows were untouched and the door had been locked and was unharmed.

"Think what?" Cato asked suspiciously.

"That Peeta couldn't carry a kid," Finnick answered. He casually picked at his nails, not at all bothered by the fact that he was an intruder in Cato's home. "But all I have to do is click my fingers and my sweetheart's reproduction system-internally anyway-can change."

"You're not going with the Satan thing too, are you?" Cato groaned.

"Oh yes, you don't believe that," Finnick replied. He straighted up and smirked. "I can see into your thoughts: you're unsure. You don't know what to believe. I honestly can't blame you. I mean, everything that's been happening, crazy right? Although, if you just tell me where Peeta is then your life can go back to normal."

Cato eyed the man skeptically. "Can't you see for yourself if you're 'satan'?" he asked.

"I'm not a magician," Finnick said flatly. His eyes lit up. "Oooh, what's this I see? Do I have competition over the affection of our boy?"

"Our?" Cato voiced. He couldn't understand how Finnick was able to read his thoughts and see everything in his head. Was he a mind reader or something? "What do you mean 'our'?"

"As much as I like going for the nasty option-and trust me, I've had many a nasty night messing with Peeta's head-I'd prefer not to share him with anyone. So you're right. There's no 'our'. He's mine." Finnick said this with such finality Cato struggled to find something to respond to it with.

"What do you mean messing with Peeta's head?" Cato demanded defensively.

"I can make him think whatever I want. Those dreams he has? All me. I can put the image of myself throwing him against a wall and riding him hard until he bursts at the seams with pleasure into his head over and over again until he cums in his sleep. I'm _that_ powerful. I do like variety, however, and would mix it up a little. Sometimes I have him riding me, or me sucking him off, bending him over objects, etc. etc. The list really is endless," Finnick explained.

"Peeta said you made love to him in his dreams, that sounds like fucking," Cato muttered, trying to hide his anger.

Finnick pursed his lips. "He's probably just shy, the poor lamb," he said. "Trust me, though, once I have him, he will be greatly looked after. Just tell me where he is."

"I'm not going to do that."

"I can give you anything you want, just tell me."

Cato raised his eyebrows. "Are you asking me to sell my soul?"

"Possibly," said Finnick. "I could take you back to hell with me so you could keep Peeta in your radar. All you have to do is tell me where he is." Cato shook his head. He wasn't prepared to sell his soul, nor was he going to sell out Peeta. Finnick simply smirked and closed his eyes.

"What are you doing?" asked Cato.

"I'm giving Peeta another dirty dream," he replied. "I don't know where he is but I can still sense when he's asleep."

"Don't do that!" Cato snapped. He didn't like the idea of some psycho giving Peeta horrible dreams. He could tell from how ashamed Peeta looked when he told him about them that he didn't like having them. And all he had done was yell at him and not believe him . . . "I'm not telling you where Peeta is and I'm not selling my soul!"

Finnick shrugged. His eyes flashed dangerously. "I'm not the sort of person you'd want to cross," he said, voice low. "I could damn your soul just like that!" He clicked his fingers. "This is a boy you just met, why do you care so much?"

Cato scowled, not liking the man's attitude. "Peeta's where-abouts are none of your concern," he snapped.

This made Finnick laugh. Cato was beginning to lose his patience with him. "I think you'll find it is. Since the day Peeta was born, he belonged to me," he said. "Whatever he is, whatever he does, is mine. He is wholly and completely mine."

Cato smirked. "Shouldn't have lost him then."

The supposed 'satan' narrowed his eyes. He obviously wasn't pleased with Cato's answers and how he didn't seem afraid of him. The man stepped forward-so quickly that Cato didn't have a chance to step back-and smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand.

Immediately, Cato's mind was filled with disturbing images. A room shrouded in red mist. A bed situated in the middle. Peeta was on the bed, arms carelessly thrown by his head. His eyes were closed and he was purring like a cat, body shifting and unable to stay still. He was beautiful, as usual, but was expressing an animalistic, carnal side of himself.

"What is this?" Cato frowned.

"It's what he's doing right now," said Finnick, not allowing the image to lighten up. "It's how I make him feel. It's not a matter of opinion or decision, he recuperates what I feel for him. He knows it, he's just trying to fight it. But you can clearly see that he's giving in to it. He wants it. Why deny him something he wants?"

Finnick flicked his finger outwards and Peeta cried out, his hips lifting before he folded in on himself. It looked almost painful.

"Pleasure is painful," said Finnick. Cato hated that the man could read his thoughts. He forced himself not to think of where Peeta was, in case he gave the destination away to Finnick by accident.

"No, it isn't," Cato contradicted. "You're supposed to enjoy it."

Cato couldn't be sure whether Peeta was enjoying himself or not. One moment he'd be purring and the next he'd be holded in on himself, face screwed up in pain. Finnick waved his hand in front of Cato's face and the image faded away again. "You obviously don't know a lot about sex," the man stated.

"I'm not going to take sex advice from satan." Great, now he was calling him satan. Was he losing his mind?

Finnick tsked and shook his head. "Shame. Fine, suit yourself. I can see that you're sticking with your unwise decisions. I'm bored with you now. However, I can still see the rot in your heart so if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me."

What does he mean by that? Cato felt the urge to ask him. Rot in his heart? Sure, he wasn't an angel but he wasn't that bad a person. He did his job everyday, he didn't commit murders or crimes. He couldn't help being anything other than offended. "Yeah, no thanks."

"I will find out where he is, though, I promise you," Finnick said. He had taken on a dark expression, the sort that made Cato step back. Not out of fear but weariness over what he was actually capable of. "He can't hide from me. If you were wise, you'd stay out of my way."

Then, in a blink of an eye, he was gone.

~xXx~

_"Ah-ah-ah, stop, it h-hurts!"_

_But it didn't stop. It didn't cease or pause or faulter. It just kept coming. With the new knowledge he had of the thousand years and Satan, he knew he had to break free of whatever was happening inside his mind. If he had have been awake, he'd know it wasn't real, that it was an illusion in his head, but he couldn't. When he was asleep he was trapped in his own head and couldn't find it in him to resist._

_It did hurt, however. It was unbearable. The pleasure was so intense it was painful. _

_A name came into Peeta's head. He hadn't heard it before in his entire life and yet it sounded so familiar. It was the name that rushed past his lips in pleasured gasps every night when his body was abused by hand and mouth. The name that-even in a dream-struck fear into his heart and soul. _

_The name was Finnick._

_"Please, stop! I-I-" He found it difficult to speak because every time he opened his mouth, the first instinct was to moan. "Finn-Finnick, I can't take it!" His hands grappled at the headboard of the bed, scrambling for something to grab hold of to elevate the pain. _

_Despite the agony he was going through, he couldn't find it in himself to pull himself free. Finnick was ruthless and relentless, his face buried between Peeta's legs, ignoring his pleads for his actions to end. He lavished his hole with his tongue, each lick causing a shockwave so powerful it burned through his veins like a fever. And not in a good way. His muscles were coiled so tight he felt like they were about to burst. He couldn't take it. It just felt . . . _so_ good._

_Peeta cried out desperately, his body trembling in exhaustion. A part of him wanted it to continue and the other wanted it to end. The pain mixed with ecstasy was too much to handle. When the mouth moved away, the pain intensified, like his body couldn't cope without having his lover's lips on his skin. _

_Finnick licked a hot trail up Peeta's torso, his hands following the path he left behind. Their lips met and Peeta submitted himself, almost instinctively. He wanted the agony to go away but he couldn't control his emotions. Finnick was forceful, shoving his tongue into his open mouth and claiming every inch. His body shook in fear of the pain and his hips jerked in blind passion._

_A hand enclosed around his hard cock, rubbing the sensitive flesh with a firm grip. Peeta screamed, throwing his head back with his eyes welded shut. "Stop!" he yelped, the statement seeming somehow invalid as he purred and opened his legs wider. Finnick kissed him even harder, massaging his ass and spreading his cheeks before pushing a finger inside of him. _

_"I'm going to fuck you so hard," Finnick purred. Peeta moaned at his words. "Will you let me?"_

_"I don't . . . I don't know . . ." _

_"Yes, you do." Finnick licked the side of Peeta's neck, absorbing every gasp of surprise and exclaimation of pleasure he could elict from him. "You're unable to resist me and you love it."_

_"P-P-Please don't, I-I can't-"_

_"Or would you prefer for me to summon that blond cop to join us?" As Finnick smirked and slid back down his body to bury his face between his legs, Peeta was horrified to find a figure standing at the back of the room. They were watching them intently, eyes filled with lust._

_Cato._

Peeta would have screamed when he woke up but the sound was muffled by a piece of cloth that was tightly tied around his mouth. He immediately panicked and tried to lash out. Except he couldn't, because he was bound to the bed by his wrists. Father Hawthorne was sat beside him, dabbing a wet cloth on his forehead.

"The devil speaks through you," the priest murmured.

"Hmmmf-mmf?" Peeta replied.

"I am truly sorry about your bindings. We tried to persevere through the images Satan has implanted in your mind but once your struggles grew too violent for us to control, we had to tie you down," Hawthorne explained. The cold water on the damp cloth was soothing and Peeta almost fell asleep again because of it.

"Imf omfk nmf."

"We would recommend going back to sleep." Hawthorne put the cloth down and looked at Peeta's wrists, which were burned and bloody. "You're at great risk of resuming your struggles so we won't release you just yet."

Peeta didn't protest. If he had the energy, he'd be extremely embarrassed because he was sweating, his throat hurt from obvious moaning in his sleep and the covers were kicked to the foot of the bed, revealing a clear bulge of arousal in his pants. All in front of a priest, a man of God. But he was exhausted. The dream-as all the others did-drained him. If there wasn't a gag around his mouth, he would have tried to smile at Father Hawthorne, thanking him again for his hospitality and kindness. Instead, his eyes fluttered closed.

Plunging him back into the world he feared most.

**A/N: I apologize for any typos. Please R&R with your thoughts! :-)**


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**December 30th 1999**

Cato stared at the clock on his mantel. 12:00am. One more day until New Year's. If this Finnick man was as crazy as he seemed, then this Satan New Year's story would drive him to find Peeta before the 31st. Story. Was it really the time to deny what was obvious? Finnick had appeared in his apartment then vanished again in the blink of an eye. He forced images of Peeta into his head that he couldn't think of on his own. Even if he couldn't admit to himself that Finnick was Satan, there was definitely something other-worldy about him.

Cato didn't know what to do. Finnick's visit had riled everything up. He couldn't find it in himself to get on as if nothing had happened, as he had originally planned. He now knew that Finnick was going to stop at nothing to get to Peeta. This knowledge was something he couldn't ignore, no matter how hard he tried to. Even though they barely knew each other, Cato seemed to care deeply for Peeta for reasons he couldn't understand.

Someone knocked at 12:15. Cato had been so on edge since Finnick's visit an hour previous, the knock had scared the crap out of him. He jumped and stared at the door, half expecting Finnick to be behind it, coming back to either kill him or proposition him again. Drawing his gun, Cato peered through the peep hold on his door.

And saw Marvel waiting on the other side.

What? Cato felt his heart soar, even though it was obvious that something was up. Marvel should be dead. He was right in the middle of the explosion outside of Peeta's house. In fact, Cato was almost completely sure that Marvel's van had been the core of the blast. There was no way he could have survived. He should be dead right now.

Staying on guard, Cato threw his door open. Upon seeing him in the threshold, Marvel grinned. "Hey, Cato, what the hell? Why did you just ditch me back there?"

"Marvel, you're alive?" Cato asked incredulously.

His best friend frowned. "Of course I'm alive, what are you talking about?" he replied.

"Your van . . . it . . . it . . ."

"I know, that was crazy, wasn't it?" Marvel slipped past Cato and stood in his hallway. He was still smiling. "I got out of the van to take a leak and next thing I know the whole thing explodes! The force knocked me out and when I woke up you were gone and that Mellark boy's house was trashed and burning! What happened?"

Cato couldn't find words. Could he trust Marvel? He had died. He was sure of it. So how was he here, standing in front of him, smiling that same smile he always did when he was pleased. But it didn't make sense. None of it did. Cato didn't know what to think. Should he just accept that Marvel's story was genuine or stay on guard?

Only one way to find out.

Cato shot Marvel's arm. Not enough for the bullet to lodge into his arm but enough for it to tear through his skin and burst out the other side. Marvel yelled in pain, his face screwing up in agony. "What the fuck, Cato?!" Marvel roared.

"Don't be a baby," Cato muttered, relieved at the sight of blood covering his friend's arm. It told him that Marvel's story was true. If he was dead or he was just seeing things, then the bullet would have either pierced his skin but not bleed or just passed right through.

"You shot me!" Marvel exclaimed. He rushed to Cato's kitchen counter and snatched a piece of cloth to press against his arm.

"It barely touched you," Cato said. He shoved his gun into his back pocket and joined Marvel in the kitchen. He was thankful that, after everything that happened, he still had his friend to rely on. It made things seem a little bit better, even though he certainly was not the case.

Marvel peeled the cloth back, the material soaked in blood, and hissed in pain. "How's the Mellark boy?" he asked.

"He was in a safe place but I have a bad feeling," Cato replied. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and ground his teeth together. Since Finnick disappeared and the promise he left behind, Cato wanted to get back to Peeta at Hawthorne's church. Something, he didn't know what, at the pit of his stomach told him that Peeta was in danger. Sooner or later Finnick would figure out where Peeta was and when he did who knew what would happen.

"You don't look so sure," said Marvel. "Are you sure it's a 'safe' place?"

"I don't know. I feel like I should go back . . . Go back and protect him . . ." Cato said.

"Well, let's go then! Where is he?"

Cato stared at Marvel. The question being asked so soon after Finnick's visit made him suspicious. Cato wanted to keep the knowledge to himself, despite the fact he had entrusted Marvel with everything ever since they started working together. "Uh, he's at the church on Seam Avenue."

Marvel nodded. "Right. Let's go then. I've acquired another vehicle."

Cato found himself smiling as well. Having Marvel around made things seem less difficult. Like he could deal with things now that he had his best friend back by his side. Marvel had a way of doing that. Made things less serious than they seemed. Hopefully, with both their forces combined, they'd have forces strong enough along with the priests to protect Peeta from Finnick.

Once New Year's had passed, hopefully the psycho would leave him alone.

~xXx~

Peeta sat on a pew, his knees drew up to his chest. The priests of the church were crowded around the first four pews at the top, as if creating a protective huddle around him. After his nightmare, Peeta hadn't been able to go back to sleep so Father Hawthorne freed him from the bed and allowed him to sit above the basement headquarters in the church. Finnick couldn't see into the house of God so they should be safe enough.

"What do we do now?" Peeta asked Father Hawthorne.

"We wait, that's all we can do. Satan cannot see you, you should be safe until New Year's has passed," Hawthorne replied. Peeta nodded glumly and rested his chin on his knees. One more day, that shouldn't be too bad. He couldn't deny that he felt extremely safe in the church, like whatever force that was bullying him ever since he was a child couldn't reach him here.

The doors opened with a groan. Heart plummeting in fear, Peeta-along with the others-'s head snapped towards the sound. If it had have been a normal day, the sight of more dog collars would have made him relax. On a normal day he'd have thought that priests were harmless but now-a-days he knew not to be so quick to judge.

A man with dark hair led the group as they walked up the aisle. Hawthorne stood up, defensively, but paused when the dark haired man held his hand up. "Do not worry brother, we are here to help defend the boy," he said.

Hawthorne relaxed and smiled. He held out a hand and shook the newcomer's. "Thank you brother, we need all the help we can get," he said.

Peeta peered past Hawthorne, wishing to thank them himself. The dark man's eyes met his own and narrowed skeptically. "Is that him?" he asked.

Hawthorne stepped aside and nodded. "Yes, this is Peeta."

As soon as the word 'yes' passed the priest's lips, the newcomer's straightened up, as if preparing to do take action against something. Peeta felt uneasy, like a dangerous presence had suddenly overcome the room. Every pew, every portrait, every window, everything darkened. Then, he saw it. Round the necks of every single priest that just stepped through the door.

A necklace. A chain with a charm hanging from it. A heart shrouded in thorns with a knife driven through the top.

Peeta jumped off the seat and backed away. "Father Hawthorne, don't trust them! They're part of that group! The Vatican Killers!"

As soon as Peeta exposed them, Hawthorne backed up, moving to stand in front of him in a protective stance. Peeta didn't understand why Hawthorne would trust him so quickly and easily but it was a good thing he did. The newcomers were quick, managing to get through the defense huddle before Peeta had even finished speaking. The leader knocked Hawthorne to the ground with a swift smack, the poor man hitting the floor with a heavy thump. When he tried to stand up and resume defense, one of the attackers-not the leader-grabbed him and held him back.

The leader grabbed Peeta, using overwhelming strength to ignore his struggles and throw him down. Peeta cried out, his arm having taken the brunt of the impact. The evil minions swooped in and grabbed his arms, pinning him against the floor. Panic seized Peeta and he screamed, his heart pounding in his chest hard enough to burst.

Those who had previously sat with him as support did nothing to help him. Hawthorne was the only one who protested, forcing himself against the man holding him back and shouting, "Don't do this! It is not God's will!"

"God's will is to protect mankind, this is protecting mankind!" The leader snapped. He approached the restrained boy quickly, producing a knife from his pocket. When Peeta realized that struggling was useless, he stared at the man defiantly, not wanting to die as a coward. His body may have been crippled with fear but he wasn't going to submit his mind to it.

"Fighting fire with fire never works!" shouted Hawthorne.

The leader ignored him and met Peeta's eyes. His gaze was dark but Peeta could see sympathy within it. "I am truly sorry your life must end so abruptly. But you have the mark of the beast. You must die."

Peeta scowled and spat at the man. It smacked his eye, causing him to back up a little to rub it off. Peeta grinned triumphantly, glad to have gotten one tiny victory before he died. It was a small win as it only took the man a second to wipe his eye dry. He didn't even seem mad at him for doing it. Maybe it was because he was about to take his life anyway.

Throughout the procession of last rites, Hawthorne yelled at them, trying to get them to rethink what they were about to do. Peeta forced his eyes shut, turning his head away to wait for the killer blow. He had barely lived his life, yet he wasn't afraid. There were so many things he still had to do. He hadn't travelled the world or made many friends, he hadn't had a relationship or had a first kiss. He was still a virgin.

"Amen."

Hawthorne roared a final, "NO!" as the knife was lifted above the leader's head in preparation to slam into Peeta's body. Peeta steeled himself, every muscle tightening as if it would protect him from the blade somehow. Or at least slow down the impact. The last thing he thought about before he accepted his fate was Cato, for some bizarre reason. How he had protected him so desperately up until they parted ways underneath Hawthorne's church.

A shot rang out, the bullet having hit the leader's hand before the knife could get anywhere near Peeta's chest. The leader screamed in pain, dropping the gun as blood exploded from his hand. Peeta lifted his head, arms still pinned down, and gawped. There he stood, the man he never thought he'd see again, standing at the end of the aisle with a gun trained right at the leader.

"Try that again and it'll be your head," Cato growled.

"Cato!" Peeta exclaimed.

"Mr. Hadley!" said Hawthorne, sounding relieved.

The leader pointed at Cato in horror. "You don't know what you're doing, you meddling oaf!" he shouted. At the sight of Cato's gun, the henchmen began to back up, the guys holding onto Peeta's arms let go and cowered away. Peeta jumped to his feet and met Cato's eyes. The older man lowered his gun. "Peeta, come with me please." Peeta wasn't sure what to do. He looked at Father Hawthorne, who was no longer being held back. The priest simply nodded.

"Go with him, Peeta. You are no longer safe here," he said.

Somehow, Peeta didn't need to be told twice. Ever since Cato had left the church the previous night, he had been regretting his choice to not go with him. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate Father Hawthorne's help, he just felt like he would feel safer with Cato. Peeta went to Cato, the smile that grew on the man's face when he reached his side confirming that he had made the right decision.

He turned to Father Hawthorne. "Thank you. For everything," he said.

Father Hawthorne nodded. "There is no need to thank me. Now go, while we deal with these imbeciles."

Peeta turned his head to look at Cato. The older man was staring at him, smiling like nothing could make him any happier. Cato threaded their fingers together and together they ran out of the church, leaving Father Hawthorne and the members of the Vatican Killers behind.

~xXx~

Finnick entered the church moments after Cato and Peeta left. He knew he had missed them but had people to deal with in the interior. It had been extremely frustrating that Cato hadn't just given in and sold his soul but nothing could be done about that. Nobility was always an annoyingly common trait. Good thing Cato's friend wasn't that difficult. Marvel had been very keen to sell himself out. However, the situations in which he asked had been very different. He had asked Cato in his apartment, Marvel had been burning to death when the question had been posed to him.

The Vatican Killers were still in the church when he entered. The fact that a group of arrogant men had the nerve to form a group with the intention to kill Peeta was insulting. Finnick had ignored it when they first formed but now that they were actually getting close to killing him every time, something had to be done about it.

The look of surprise on their faces were comical. Oh the naivety. What started the idea that he couldn't enter a House of God, Finnick had no idea, but the fact that he was strolling up the aisle with a smug smirk on his face shocked them all.

One of them charged forward, his bravery making him stupid. Finnick's eyes immediately caught the knife in his hand. Peeta had been here. They tried to kill him. "Get out of here Satan! This is God's house, you cannot be here!" he shouted.

Finnick rolled his eyes. Urgh, why did they always shout? What did they think? They could harm him with words? He yanked a crucifix out of the floor and stabbed it into the stupid man's head, twisting it until it broke through his skull and implanted his brain. The man died instantly but the pain he caused felt like it went on for years.

The body hit the floor with a thump, blood pooling on the marble. Finnick grinned. Spilled blood on God's floor. How ironic and pleasing. "Now!" Finnick declared, clapping his hands together, "Tell me where Peeta is and I'll be on my way."

"We aren't going to tell you anything so you might as well just leave," said Father Hawthorne.

"Oh Father, your noble facade is admirable," Finnick said sarcastically. "Just tell me where my love is and I'll be out of your hair. No harm done."

"There will be lots of harm done and you know it," Hawthorne replied. "You feed off chaos."

This statement made Finnick's grin widen. "I love how you know me, Hawthorne. There's no point in holding it back, you know. I will find him before the end of the year and I will impregnate him. You can't stop me."

Hawthorne lifted his chin defiantly. "You will get nothing from me."

Finnick raised his eyebrows. "Oh really, now?"

"I'll tell you!" A different priest burst out. "He and that blond man ran out of the church moments ago! I think they're probably going to try and escape out the alleyway."

Hawthorne closed his eyes, ashamed. He breathed in and exhaled slowly. Finnick was amused by the man's shame. Some people were so quick to sell other people out for their own safety. He looked at the traitor for faux genuineness. "Thank you," he said. He then proceeded to shove his hand into the man's chest and dropped him onto the floor. Once that was done, Finnick knew he didn't have time to kill the others. He had to catch up with Peeta and Cato before they disappeared again. He was so close now he could almost smell Peeta's scent of cinnamon and browning crust.

So, so close.

~xXx~

Peeta ran through the back alley with Cato, clutching his hand so tight he feared he would cut off the circulation. Cato had explained that his friend called Marvel was going to meet them in about five minutes. Everywhere was damp, the air thick with humidity with the occasional fat droplet falling from the sky. It was completely dark so it was difficult to see even a little bit in front of himself.

They were waiting for this guy Marvel to arrive. Peeta leaned against the wall, trying not to let his pounding heart take over his train of thinking. "Are you alright? Were you hurt?" asked Cato.

"No, you came just in time," Peeta replied. He placed his hand over his heart, where the man from the Vatican Killers had been seconds away from stabbing him. "Even a second longer and I'd probably be dead right now." He looked at Cato. "Thank you. For saving me."

Cato smiled. "It was nothing."

A car appeared at the top of the alley and Cato's smile widened. In a matter of moments they'd be safe. Peeta would be safe. They could get away, fly to a different country, anything to escape Finnick. Okay, so if he was as powerful as expressed, he'd be able to follow them but all they had to do was stay out of his way until New Year's.

When they took off towards the car, a voice stopped them. _"Oh, Peeta,"_ the voice sang.

Peeta stopped dead, his blood running cold. Cato stopped as well, his grip on the younger boy's hand tightening. Cato threw Peeta in front of him and gave him a push, forcing him to move. "Get in the car!"

"But what about you?!" Peeta turned around defiantly, unable to just leave Cato behind. He could see the man from his dreams approaching them, getting closer by the second. He was grinning in an incredibly smug fashion. It made Peeta want to turn around and run. He forced himself to stay put. He wasn't leaving Cato behind.

"I'll be right behind you, I just need to hold him back, now go!" Cato insisted.

"I can't!" Peeta replied.

Rolling his eyes, Cato grabbed Peeta by the lapels of his jacket and kissed him. It threw him off guard but he returned it impulsively. And God, he was glad he did. It was quick but replaced the ice in his veins with warmth. When they pulled apart, Cato's eyes were dead serious. "Go," he said firmly.

There was no room for argument. Cato gave Peeta another push and he was forced to go. He ran to Marvel's car and climbed into the backseat. Cato's friend sat in the driver's seat. He didn't say anything, which Peeta barely noticed as he flipped around to sit on his knees in the backseat and peer out the back window at Cato.

Finnick had brought a crowd of people with him. Followers? Satan worshippers? That police woman from the investigation in Peeta's house was there, what was her name? Katniss? Along with a lot of others. The crowd was so thick the alley was stuffed to the hilt. Cato and Finnick seemed to be conversing. Peeta stared at them through the back window, predicting what they were saying.

A few minutes later, Finnick drew back his fist and punched Cato so hard that he fell to the ground. Peeta's heart dropped and he lurched towards the door. He yanked on the handle but it wouldn't budge. It was locked. "Open the door!" Peeta yelled at Marvel. He didn't respond. "Open the door!"

When it was clear the Marvel wasn't going to listen to him, Peeta looked out the back window again. The crowd had swallowed up Finnick and Cato so he couldn't see what was happening. Peeta tried for the other door but it didn't budge either. "Argh!" he yelled in frustration. "OPEN THESE DOORS NOW! Are you deaf or something?!"

Marvel still didn't move, as if he were frozen in stasis or something.

Finnick emerged from the crowd but Cato did not. Peeta's stomach bottomed out when he realized that the man was heading towards the car. Towards him. Panic settling over him, despite the fact that he knew the doors weren't going to open, Peeta grappled with the door handles. Oh god, oh god, oh god, no, no, no, can't be happening, can't be happening, can't be happening.

Of course, when Finnick reached the car and opened the door, it worked easily. Peeta took a fleeting look out the back window, horrified when he realized that Finnick's followers were beating Cato and keeping him back. He took one last attempt at escaping, yanking so hard on the door handle that it broke off. Screaming in frustration, Peeta threw them at Marvel's head. He still didn't respond.

Finnick climbed into the car, the same smug smirk on his face, and shut the door behind him. Peeta pressed himself against the door, his heart pounding so hard he felt sick. Finnick didn't tear his eyes away from him, sliding across the seat so that there was barely any space between them. Peeta couldn't catch his breath, his chest heaving in panic. He couldn't even move a muscle or he'd be pressing himself into Finnick.

"Marvel, take us away," said Finnick, still not breaking eye contact.

Marvel did as Finnick told him and started the car. He drove away, taking them God knows where.

And leaving Cato behind.

**A/N: Please R&R with your thoughts! **


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